


Lofton Cares

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Drug Counseling, Group Counseling, Human AU, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Rehab, Slow Burn, bottom!Crowley, mentions of domestic abuse, top!aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 43,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28069326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Aziraphale Fell is a recently divorced drugs counselor working at a once thriving, now underfunded drug treatment facility in New Jersey USA. Crowley is a has been rock star, down on his luck and recently sober who starts coming to Aziraphale's meetings.Thank you emilycare for helping me get these first few chapters up!Thank you Tumblr anon for the amazing prompt you gave me many months ago!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 217
Kudos: 263
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I'm writing this in the US because I know relatively a lot about drug treatment in this country and nothing about drug treatment in the UK. This would necessitate that the other characters are American, but feel free to imagine them all as British. I certainly do. It was either that or not include them, and I love the Ineffable Gang too much not to!

Twenty years ago, Lofton Cares House had been _the_ place to go if you had a chemical dependency issue. Nestled in the wooded outskirts of Lofton New Jersey, a town known for its quaint restaurants and coffee shops, and for its well respected university, Lofton Cares House, or simply ‘Lofton Cares’ to the locals, had been the best drug and alcohol rehab facility in the state. 

But that was twenty years ago. Now, what with the revamping of the Lofton Hospital, which had been bought out by a large Pennsylvania hospital network five years ago, along with its brand new drug and alcohol treatment program, less and less people were getting sent to Lofton Cares. The funding had started to dry up, the millionaire contributors (many of whom were graduates of Lofton University) moving on to greener pastures. The place had become a bit run down. They’d had to go from an inpatient-residential facility, which once boasted 25 beds and an MAT program that could support the dispensing of a wide array of detox drugs, to an outpatient and therapy only program. 

AA and NA met there every night, along with SMART Recovery meetings twice a week for those who didn’t want Jesus talk with their recovery approach. Aziraphale Fell led a weekly group therapy session there, and was the Assistant Director of Behavioral Health Services for the once thriving facility. 

His boss, Michael Angeles, a stern woman with a stiff updo and cold eyes, ran the facility along with a small maintenance crew and the 12 Step and SMART counselors who stopped in to run their weekly meetings. Although Aziraphale, (to all who knew him on a personal level and “Mr. Fell” to everyone else), was only the Assistant Director, everyone saw him as the face of Lofton Cares. He was the most involved after all. He was the one who gave the most of his time to the facility and who actually seemed to care deeply about the small ragtag group of people who came to the meetings he lead. 

Aziraphale had moved to the States several years ago from London to marry his long time American boyfriend Gabriel Archer. He’d gone for a Bachelors in counseling, minoring in psychology and had started at Lofton Cares House, wanting to help people in any capacity he could, yet not wanting to limit himself to one on one therapy sessions. He’d seen a lot of drug abuse and alcoholism in his own family back home in London, not to mention the ravages of heroin addiction among that city’s homeless. He felt moved to drug counseling, and Gabriel had supported his interest in it. It was one of the few things he’d ended up supporting after the move. It still startled Aziraphale when he looked back on how quickly Gabriel had become cold and unresponsive once Aziraphale had moved to the states and become his husband.

Their relationship unfortunately hadn’t survived the transition from long distance to cohabiting and had sort of fallen apart a few years later. In the aftermath they’d settled on an agreement. Aziraphale would move into his own apartment, pay his own bills, and Gabriel wouldn’t ask for a divorce. They were both free to date other people, as long as it was discreet. It was an arrangement that worked well for both parties. It allowed Aziraphale to stay in the country and continue working at Lofton Cares. And it allowed him to stay in the states. A thing he’d daydreamed about doing since he was a lad, watching old black and white Hollywood movies on his parent’s ancient and tiny television. America. The land of glitz and glamour (and handsome men like Gabriel Archer). 

Back when he’d first started working there, Lofton House had already made the transition to outpatient services, but the meetings had been more highly attended, lively events. Yes there were tears and bitter catharsis as clients worked through their unresolved emotional problems, but the meetings were also full of laughter and healing and jovial camaraderie. Aziraphale found that his twice weekly group therapy sessions (different from the 12 Step program and SMART Recovery, for he was a licensed counselor) were healing to him as well. Diving into the helping of other people with their problems worked wonders on sewing up the holes that his failed marriage to Gabriel had opened up in his heart. It gave him a sense of usefulness, of being needed and of doing good work to help ease the pain of others.

Eventually though, as the new hospital, a mere 4.2 miles away, started to draw more and more clients, attendance at the various meetings dried up. Soon, Aziraphale’s group counseling sessions dwindled from twenty five people, down to a dedicated but much reduced group of five individuals. 

There was Tracy, a feisty woman of grandmotherly age, who nevertheless dressed as if she were forty years younger. She showed up every week, twice a week like clockwork. Her hair dyed a wide array of colors, from hot pink to sea green to bleach blond. Her animal print jackets and sparkly leggings and clinking piles of flashy costume jewelry, though a bit ridiculous for a woman in her 70s, nevertheless added a sense of color and fun to their weekly meetings. 

Anathema, a lovely young woman, came most meeting days. She also had a bit of a flair for the dramatic, wearing antique dresses and hippy skirts, her long, lustrous dark hair piled on top of her head or braided with beads and falling about her shoulders. She was battling a pill addiction she’d picked up in college, when she’d needed that extra push to finish a paper or cram for a test. She was shadowed by Newt Pulsifer, a shy young man, who while he didn’t come to the meetings with Anathema, always seemed to arrive at the same time. He was very clearly in love with her, but everyone tactfully avoided mentioning this. He struggled with severe anxiety and a ritalin and cocaine addiction. 

Adam was new. And painfully young. He was barely nineteen years old, and his parents had insisted he go to meetings due to the fact that he was clearly developing an unhealthy relationship to alcohol, mixed with party drugs like Ecstacy and hallucinogens. After he’d stumbled home at 3am in a stupor, smelling of alcohol with pinpricks for pupils one too many times, his family had virtually dragged him to the meetings under threats of kicking him out onto the streets. He’d gone, showing that he did in fact have some sense in his head, but sat there, silent and unresponsive through most of it. Only speaking when forced to speak, which Aziraphale did not have the heart to do often. 

Shadwell was the eldest group member and by far the most obnoxious. He was a cantankerous man in his mid 70s, a bit older than Tracy, and his accent hovered strangely around the British Isles with an overlay of New Jersey/NYC inflection. He smelled continually of cigarette smoke and coffee and seemed perpetually to be in a bad mood. He’d been a long time drinker, and had only gone to treatment after becoming hospitalized for alcohol poisoning a year prior. He was a tough client. The sort who thought he knew best and who often refused to listen to Aziraphale’s advice on ways to avoid cravings and stay positive. But he showed up, every week. This might be partly due to Tracy, who he couldn’t seem to stop antagonizing and who was also clearly very attractive to him, even if he himself didn’t notice this fact. 

This week however was different. There was a new client. A sixth person. This would have been exiting enough in and of itself, as new clients were rare these days. But also, Aziraphale was instantly intrigued by the lanky man with the red hair, in a way that had nothing to do with him being a new client. He lounged in his small fold out chair, limbs spread wide in an almost laughable attempt at a casually disinterested pose. 

The new man wore a pair of dark shades, even indoors, a habit that always irked Aziraphale. It meant that he could show up high to meetings, or hide his feelings from his counselor and everyone else by covering his eyes. He fully intended on firmly requesting that the man remove them at the next meeting, but resolved to allow the shades this one time, not wanting to drive him away immediately.

It was not lost on Aziraphale that the new client was incredibly attractive. He’d have to be blind not to have noticed those long limbs and sharp, delicate features and beautifully shaped mouth. Not to mention his head of shoulder length. carefully styled, copper hair. The newcomer was dressed in dark colors, tight clothing that seemed designed to evoke arousal (or envy) in all who saw him, and his black shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, showing off a distracting stretch of pale skin.

His every move telegraphed indolence and a cocky sort of confidence that was so obviously a defense mechanism that it was laughable in its transparency. This man, “Tony” as he’d introduced himself when he’d shown up, was clearly trying very hard to project an utter lack of investment in anything and everyone around him. It was an attitude that Aziraphale had seen many times before, and he rolled his eyes inwardly at Tony’s oh-so casual lounging and dark glasses. 

Aziraphale sat up straighter in his chair and cleared his throat, preparing to start the meeting. The attendees immediately stopped their mild chatter and looked in his direction. They were by now, after a few years of attending, used to the routine. The meeting would start with a check in from everyone on how their week was going, followed by a discussion of the challenges brought up during the check in. Then, if anyone had any more serious or pressing matters, Aziraphale would allow that person, or people to speak in greater detail about it, and he, with any respectful members of the group adding their opinion if they so wished, would seek to help the person with their problem. 

“Hello everyone! Welcome back!” he said cheerfully, pushing his small wire spectacles further up on the bridge of his nose and folding his hands in his lap. “How is everyone tonight?” He was greeted with a chorus of half hearted responses. “It’s check in time,” Aziraphale said, “who would like to go first?”

A small silence ensued, as it did every week, while almost everyone waited to give their fellow meeting members a chance to go. As usual, Tracy spoke up first. “Well,” she began, “I had a good week. My cat Beatrice finally stopped ripping up the furniture, but I had to spray her with the water bottle several times to get her to cut it out. Other than that, my grandson and his girlfriend came for a visit. He wanted to share a bottle of wine he’d brought, and I had to remind him that I’m practicing abstinence right now and that was sort of embarrassing.” Nods of commiseration happened around the group. Everyone had been there before. Abstaining in a world full of casual drinkers or drug users. It made one feel like a sore thumb.

“Anyway, he was really nice about it,” Tracy continued with a smile. “He’s a very nice boy. And he brought me flowers! Other than that, nothing much to report. Thank you for listening.” She subsided with a nervous tug to one of her large, chandelier earrings and a small twitch of her narrow shoulders.

“I’ll go next,” Anathema spoke up, and all eyes turned to her. Except Tony the newcomer. _Interesting_ , Aziraphale though. Most men when confronted with Anathema Device grew intensely interested in anything she happened to say. Poor Newt had quite a lot of competition to deal with if he ever wanted to win her heart. “This week was fucking rough,” Anathema began.

“Language Ana,” Aziraphale reminded her gently.

“Oh yeah, sorry Mr. Fell. Well, this week was _really_ rough. My mom fell off the wagon again and showed up drunk and I had to tell her to… fudge off, and she didn’t like hearing that, so she ended up screaming at my windows from the front lawn and all the neighbors heard.” Anathema clenched her jaw and visibly fought back tears for a moment. Aziraphale’s heart went out to her. Recovery, while dealing with an addict in the family who refused to get clean was very tough indeed. 

“Also, I called the police on her again. I knew if I didn’t, she might have tried to break in, or just stand there screaming for an hour. This is the second time she’s done this, and I hope being carted off by the cops helps teach her not to keep coming back.” She stopped speaking then, lapsing into a worried silence.

“Oh Ana, that is indeed very rough as you put it,” Aziraphale said softly. “If you’d like to talk more about that when we do our Deeper Dive, then let us know.” Anathema nodded and crossed her arms over her chest, looking down at her lap. Newt next to her seemed very tempted to place a hand on her shoulder, but visibly restrained himself. 

“How has your week been going Adam?” Aziraphale turned to the sullen young man in the t-shirt and jeans who sat slouched in the chair to his right. 

“It’s fine,” Adam responded with his usual mumbled tone of couldn’t-care-less. 

“Anything of note you’d like to talk about tonight?” Aziraphale prompted gently, not wanting to push but unable to just let Adam sit there week after week like a lump on a log.

“Nah. Everythings’ fine,” Adam repeated with a shrug, and Aziraphale decided he’d tried enough for tonight. He knew he should press more, ask more questions, but coming up against Adam’s impenetrable wall of teen ambivalence was a daunting task on normal days, let alone now, that they had a new person in their midst. Speaking of which… 

“How about you Tony?” Aziraphale turned to the red haired man, schooling his face in an expression of polite attentiveness he hoped would encourage the man to open up. “You’re new, so I’ll let you know how the meetings typically go. We start off with a check in, where anyone who wants to tells us about challenging things, or good things that happened to them since the last meeting. Then we discuss some typical issues associated with addiction and recovery and try to apply them to some of those situations, and finally, we do what we call a Deeper Dive for those who have a problem that needs extra attention. Would you care to check in and tell us how the week has been going for you?”

He watched as the man sat up straighter and ran long, elegant fingers through his flame colored hair. “Um, well, not much to report really,” he said, and Aziraphale was surprised to hear that the man had a distinctly southern English accent. His voice was soft and a little nasal. Appealing in the extreme. “I uh.. I guess, I realized that the drinking had gotten a bit out of control and my a- my friend told me about this group and I thought I’d check it out.” The man shrugged. He’d effectively ignored Aziraphale’s question about how his week was going, and that was fine. There would be time to let him open up. If he came back that is. 

“I’m sorry, but is no one else going to mention it?” Anathema spoke up, looking around the group with wide eyes, holding out a hand to Tony as if expecting him to respond somehow to her vague statement. “Am I gonna have to be the first one who says it?” She asked, sounding incredulous for some reason that escaped Aziraphale completely. 

“What are you referring to my dear?” Aziraphale asked, confused. 

“I’m sorry, I know you probably wanted to stay anonymous or something,” Anathema was talking to Tony now, “but, you’re clearly Anthony Crowley. Did you actually expect none of us to recognize you?”

Tony (Anthony?) shrugged noncommittally, but his lips had turned up into the ghost of a smile, as if he might enjoy being recognized.

“Anathema dear, what are you talking about?” Aziraphale asked, beginning to get a little irritable at being kept in the dark. “We do allow our clients to maintain anonymity if they want to, so this is a little inaprop-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Anathema interjected. She always did struggle with social boundaries. “But this is _different_ . This is Anthony J. Crowley. _Crowley_. The lead singer of Dark Angel. The band? Jeez Mr. Fell, didn’t you ever listen to the radio in the 90s? Their song ‘Loving You’ was on repeat for like five years straight. Oh! Oh! And ‘Chain Me Up’? I loved that one!” She was bouncing up and down in her chair in her excitement, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. Tony’s smile grew a few centimeters and he looked pleased with himself. 

“Wait, _you’re_ the lead singer of _Dark Angel_?” This was from Adam, and everyone's eyes but Anthony Crowley’s swivelled to stare at him in awe. The young man never said anything in group unless it was pulled out of him. “That band is the shit! I used to listen to your Blue Dream True album all the time when I was in grade school.” 

Anthony Crowley grimaced at the words “grade school” and Aziraphale felt a pang of empathy. The man looked to be about Aziraphale’s age, in his late forties, early fifties. It was always unfortunate to be reminded of just how long ago the prime of one’s life had actually been. 

“Thanks kid,” he mumbled. “Yeah, it’s me. Thought I could slip under the radar by going to a smaller, out of the way meeting, but I guess not.” 

Aziraphale bristled inwardly at hearing Lofton Cares referred to as “smaller” and “out of the way”, but he kept the flash of irritation from showing. 

“Well, I have no idea who you are” grumbled Shadwell. 

“Me neither,” this from Tracy.

“That’s cuz you’re both old,” remarked Adam, clearly in a talkative mood now that his primary school rock star hero was in attendance. 

“Don’t sass your elders,” said Tracy without missing a beat. 

“So,” Anathema piped up again, looking at the newcomer with stars in her eyes. “What should we call you? Crowley? I thought you went by Crowley right? Or is Tony preferable? Rolling Stone called you ‘Anthony Crowley’, but that sounds silly.” She was launching herself into what Aziraphale called Chatty Mode. A nervous sort of overconfidence that involved rapid fire questions and nervous laughter. 

“Crowley is just fine,” replied Crowley with a sly smile, and Anathema turned pink and grinned like a fool. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he hadn’t blushed a little himself. _What a smile,_ he caught himself thinking. 

“Well then, Mr. Crowley, we welcome you, our very first celebrity to the twice weekly group therapy meeting at Loften Cares House. Glad to have you,” Aziraphale said in a manner he knew was far too formal. But what did he know of rock stars? 

“Just Crowley’s fine,” remarked the man, regarding Aziraphale placidly from behind his shades. 

“I’m sorry…” Aziraphale was lost again.

“You called me ‘Mr. Crowley’. You can drop the ‘mister’” Crowley replied. 

Aziraphale nodded, “Oh yes, apologies. _Crowley_ , I shall endeavor to remember that.”

“Mr. Fell is very formal,” Tracy remarked. “Took him forever to stop calling me ‘Madame Tracy’ and to call Anathema ‘Ana’, so prepare yourself for more ‘mister’”.

Aziraphale frowned at Tracy. “Now now Tracy, I’m not some ancient fuddy duddy. I can be informal if the situation calls for it.” 

Tracy rolled her eyes. 

“In any case,” Aziraphale shot her a look before turning back to Crowley. “I’m ever so glad you could attend. Please do let me know if you have any questions.” 

Crowley gave Aziraphale a mock salute. He wasn’t sure if the motion was meant to come off as infuriatingly condescending as it did, so he turned away and focused on the group again. 

“Would anyone else care to check in and let us know how your week is going?” 

Newt and Shadwell, usually the shyer members of the group, avoided his gaze and people shifted a bit in their chairs. 

Since no one spoke up, Aziraphale continued on with the meeting. They made good progress talking about how Anathema could build some stronger boundaries surrounding her mother’s behavior and how to reach out for legal advice. Anathema talked about how seeing her mom that way, drunk and enraged made her want to use again to deal with it, but also made her want to keep abstaining so she didn’t end up in a similar place. Everyone except Crowley and Adam nodded knowingly at this. 

Though Aziraphale was glad Crowley was there, being that he was a new client and could possibly bring a new perspective and energy to the group, he was also apprehensive that having a famous person in their midst might intimidate the other group members into sharing less freely, or, more realistically, they’d be so star-struck they’d forget about their own needs and focus in on what Crowley had to say. 

He supposed none of that would matter if Crowley didn’t return for the next meeting. And why did the thought of Crowley not coming back bring with it a stab of disappointment?

 _It’s because you’re attracted to him you daft fool,_ Aziraphale scolded himself as he said his goodbyes at the end of the meeting and watched everyone walk to the door. Well..almost everyone. Crowley _sauntered_ rather than walked. 

_Because you’re already imagining what those hips would look like if you peeled those ridiculous trousers off him you filthy old man._

Crowley’s appearance at group hammered home to Aziraphale that he hadn’t had sex since he’d separated from Gabriel. And to be perfectly honest, he hadn’t had much sex in the year leading up to their separation either. Apparently, having Aziraphale in his house, sleeping next to him in his bed every night was a turnoff for Gabriel. Apparently, and Aziraphale wished fervently that he’d known this sooner, Gabriel liked long distance relationships. Said they allowed him “space” and “distance.” All of this was fine. He simply should have figured that out before asking Aziraphale to marry him and move to the states. 

Not that being stuck in the states with his own place and relative romantic freedom was a bad thing. He _had_ always wanted to live here after all, and to date, it had been a largely pleasant experience. The trips to Manhattan, a mere hour and twenty minutes up the road. He’d wandered around the Village, visited Stonewall, visited sex shops and strip clubs, gone to the Met and Central Park, had seen the 9/11 memorial and the giant Christmas tree at Rockafeller Center. He’d also looked with longing at the pretty young men traipsing down the street, arm in arm. It reminded him of Soho, but somehow also it was all quite different. 

He’d taken trips south to Philadelphia as well, to see live jazz bands and theater performances, burlesque shows and one man spoken word performances. Had even had one of their famous cheese steaks, and after taking three bites, realizing that he would likely not have another anytime soon. He did some of this with Gabriel, when the man could be bothered, which wasn’t often. And then, after the separation, he’d done his exploring on his own. There was so much to see in this part of the country. He’d visited the Washington Monument and saw Book of Mormon on Broadway (which made his raised-religious heart feel a little guilty, even if he laughed until he cried at the clever musical numbers). 

Also, New Jersey was chock full of amazing restaurants, a fact that Aziraphale particularly appreciated. Pizza was a _thing_ here. And bagels, hot from the brick oven, slathered with cold, fresh cream cheese and topped with thick slabs of smoked lox, capers and onion. Farm fresh vegetables and delightful vegan bakeries and tons of ethnic restaurants from the plethora of people from different countries who’d settled in the area. He was told that New Jersey had the best Indian food in the tristate area by other Jerseyites, who weren’t shy about bragging about their state. 

There were things he didn’t like. The traffic was atrocious, as were the drivers, who would rather run you off the road than deign to use a turn signal, but he’d been told it was nothing compared to places like Los Angeles or Chicago. So many cars everywhere! And the people were… well not all _rude_ necessarily, but there was just a certain cavalier bluntness about New Jersey and New York people (not to mention those from “Philly”) that seemed startlingly improper to his old fashioned, British sensibilities. 

He lived in a small, two bedroom apartment in a township on the outskirts of Lofton, which was thankfully quite rural and lovely. He’d never learned to drive. A thing that mattered less during his life in London. Now, he walked a mile to the local bus stop for a bus that would drop him off two short blocks from Lofton Cares House. He enjoyed the walk, and did it as long as he could. Only using Uber to get to work when it was too frightfully hot or cold to make the trek. 

He didn’t date. It was just not a thing he excelled at. It seemed incredibly stilted, and there were oh so many expectations. There was what appeared to be a thriving gay community in New Jersey, not to mention in NYC, but Aziraphale was an old fashioned man, and the fast pace and open eroticism of the gay dating scene intimidated him. 

He was still a little heartbroken over his break up with Gabriel, whom he’d been together with for almost a decade at that point. Before Gabriel, he’d only had two partners, and both of them he’d met organically, by way of local bookshops and coffee houses. He wasn’t good at ‘picking people up’, and feared he was far too old to cruise the clubs, and even if he’d been far younger, the crowds and pumping music would not have been to his liking. 

And so Aziraphale simply focused on work and read his many books (the apartment was packed floor to ceiling with them). He did have a roaming eye for a pretty smile or a nice rear end, but looking was about all he felt he had the energy to do. Until he saw Anthony Crowley.

He knew he was in trouble when, two days after he met the man, he was still absently thinking about his face and body, his soft voice, his long fingered hands. Crowley was clearly hiding behind some significant boundaries, constructed of aloofness and cockiness. Hiding pain that Aziraphale was not equipped to dig up and help resolve. The man radiated overconfidence and defensiveness like a cheap cologne. But he was also so bloody _appealing_. 

Aziraphale chided himself repeatedly over his thoughts returning again and again to Crowley. Firstly, the man was more than likely straight, so there was that to consider. Secondly, he was the man’s group therapist and a relationship while Crowley was attending meetings was strictly forbidden and morally wrong. Thirdly, this attraction was purely physical, and largely based on the fact that Aziraphale had not had a shag in probably two years. Add to this the fact that Crowley was the sort of attractive that was honed to perfection by brand name, well fitting clothes and high end hair products and trips to the spa. He was polished and carefully coiffed and his jeans hugged his legs and hips and arse to within an inch of their lives. He knew precisely how attractive he was, because people, fans, agents, photographers, magazine journalists, and hoards of other admirers had probably told him such for the entirety of his life. 

And who was Aziraphale? He was plump and old fashioned. He wore a tartan bow tie. He refused to curse, and did not allow profanity in his meetings, preferring to say things like “drat” and “darn it all” and “Oh fiddle faddle”. He had been raised a proper, Christian lad, and even when the religion had worn off, falling away under the onslaught of homophobia and strict adherence that he'd found he could no longer tolerate as he grew older, the properness had remained. Aziraphale, for all that he now lived as an atheist and as a gay man, might as well have been a priest for the shape his life had taken. Living alone, in monastic coziness with his hundreds of books. Not an appealing option for a rock star. Even a has-been one with an alcohol problem. 

And it was best not even to consider the man’s attitude issues. Aziraphale supposed this was how famous rock musicians just _were_ to a large degree. Cocky and surly. Clinging to the crumbling edifice of their popularity.

Overwhelmed with curiosity, he’d done a little digging when he’d gotten home after the meeting. He’d looked on google for “Dark Angel lead singer,” and had been confronted with some very appealing and dramatic photos of his new client. Crowley, gleaming with sweat and crooning into a microphone in front of thousands of screaming fans, wearing some sort of black, strappy outfit that showed off his muscular arms and small patch of copper chest hair. Crowley with his shades off, his startling, lovely eyes looking smolderingly into the lens of a camera for a magazine photo shoot in the mid 90s. Jesus, he looked so _young_ , and achingly pretty. 

Then he’d seen the articles. About the drinking. The ruined hotel rooms. The picture of Crowley smashing a recording studio window with an electric guitar, a rictus of rage painted across his face.

**Dark Angel Front Man’s Drunken Jags Cause Thousands In Property Damage**

**Dark Angel Lead Singer Found Unconscious In Hotel Lobby**

**Crowley Falls Out Of Limo, Curses At Paparazzi At AMAs**

Oh my. Crowley _had_ been busy. The dates of these articles were thankfully eight and nine years ago, so hopefully the man had stopped being so destructive. And, to his relief, despite the fact that the man seemed to have a disturbing vendetta against musical instruments and furniture, he never got violent with _other people._

He paused a moment and googled _Crowley girlfriend_ , and the screen bloomed with images of beautiful young women, draping themselves all over the lead singer, at gallery openings, in clubs, on gleaming white beeches in tropical locations. He had apparently never been married, nor had any children, which was a blessing, but… he did seem to strongly prefer women. Aziraphale tried to smother the stab of disappointment that lanced through his chest at seeing the parade of curvy blonds on Crowley’s arm. 

He felt guilty suddenly, feeling as if he were prying. Yes, this information was free and available for anyone to see if they only put in the correct search terms, but still… he felt as if he was invading Crowley’s privacy. Finding out unflattering things about the man without his consent. He closed out of the web page he’d been perusing and turned off his computer, resolving to mind his own business from now on where Crowley was concerned. It wasn’t fair to do Google searches on the man when he wouldn’t have done so for other, less intriguing and less famous clients. 

He busied himself for the rest of the evening with a good book and a strong cup of tea. He wasn’t much of a sleeper, usually catching three or four hours a night, in addition to a cat nap here or there on days he had off from work. He read long into the night, only partly distracted by recurring thoughts of a chaotic young man with red hair and pretty eyes, gazing out at him from a photo on his computer screen. 


	2. Chapter 2

Much to Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley was there at the next meeting. He’d felt certain that the man hadn’t been impressed on his first visit, and seeing as he likely had such a high threshold for what he considered exciting or interesting, coming from a background of jet setting stardom, Aziraphale had assumed he’d have gone somewhere else. Somewhere like the large, shiny new Lofton Hospital Outpatient Services department. 

The hospital only hosted NA and AA meetings there, not SMART, nor did they offer group therapy outside of 12 Step programs, but still, people wanted a gleaming new lobby and a full staff of nurses and counselors to make them feel like they were getting their money’s worth. And the inpatient and pharmacotherapy services were vital. It drew the clients who needed medical detox and maintenance, and that involved an overnight stay. Lofton Cares House could no longer afford such services, and it cut down hugely on their clientele.

There was nothing wrong with Lofton Hospital. It was just a large corporation, whereas by comparison. Lofton Cares House really got to know each and every person who walked through its doors. They gave out literature on addiction and recovery, provided information and referrals to housing assistance, educational resources and clinics that would test for STDs, HIV/AIDS, and gave away free condoms to anyone who wanted them. Twice monthly they ran a pancake breakfast and a spaghetti dinner, open to the public where local homeless people could come to get a hot meal, and provided referrals to psychotherapists and counselors for mental health concerns. Aziraphale and the other counselors really _cared_. 

Lofton Hospital wanted people in and out as quickly as possible so that they could earn more and receive more funding, and they had a veritable phalanx of nurses, so a patient rarely received care by the same person regularly. Lofton Cares House, by comparison, focused more on helping those who did show up to heal at their own pace, and there were the same group of counselors there weekly, along with Aziraphale, Michael and the cleaning crew, who chatted amiably with clients and were considered part of the family as well. 

Crowley apparently hadn't been driven away, for there he was, for the Wednesday meeting, in a faded black t-shirt and tight black jeans and black boots that laced up to his mid calf. Aziraphale strove valiantly not to stare at the man’s legs as he got ready to start the meeting. Crowley was still wearing his shades, but Aziraphale resolved to speak to him about it after the meeting was over, rather than call him out in front of the other participants. 

Everyone else was also in attendance. Which Aziraphale had fully expected, being that a new intriguing person was now in the group. Even Shadwell was casting curious glances in Crowley’s direction, and his usual surly expression had lightened up a bit.

“Hello everyone and welcome back!” Aziraphale exclaimed cheerfully. It was the way he started all his meetings, and had become a tradition. Everyone mumbled their own greetings at him in response from the most chipper (Tracy) to the least chipper (a tie between Shadwell and Adam). “As usual, we’ll open up the meeting with a check in about how everyone has been doing since the last meeting. Who would like to go first?”

He was beyond surprised when Crowley raised his hand. He nodded at Crowley to indicate that he should speak and the red haired man shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Hey everyone,” he said, “I’m new here, and I wanted to say that I’m glad you’re OK with me coming into your little group. I know it’s gotta be weird to have a _famous person_ ,” (here, he used air quotes) “hanging around, but I promise, I’m just like everyone else. So no need to treat me any different. I’m just glad to have some place to go.” 

Aziraphale bristled at Crowley’s comments, and he wasn’t quite sure why. Perhaps it was the way Crowley called it ‘your little group’ which seemed condescending. His ‘I’m just like the rest of you’ speech, when he clearly wasn’t. His statement of being glad to have “someplace” to go. As if that’s all this was. Some random place he found acceptable. 

He knew he was reading too much into it, but there was definitely some bristling happening. He hid these feelings carefully from showing on his face, masking them (almost successfully) with a stiff smile. 

What was even more irritating, above and beyond the mild condescension and ‘hey everyone, look at me!’ quality of his check in was that he still hadn’t said anything about how he was doing lately. Which was the whole point of a check in in the first place! Aziraphale decided it was time to redirect Crowley’s attention to the reason he had come, and away from his being famous. 

“Crowley,” he said. “I appreciate your reassuring the group about your presence here. Also, why don’t you let us know if anything is new with you, and how your week is going?” 

Crowley looked at him with a blank expression from behind his (quite irritating) shades for a moment. “I erm…” he began. “Well, It’s been going pretty good actually. My agent talked to me about this great new gig, and I heard from some old friends. Everything’s been er… great!” he scrubbed the back of his neck with one long fingered hand and shrugged. 

Aziraphale knew from years of experience dealing with addicts, and human nature, and just simply from loving and observing the human race in general, that Crowley was full of it. But he didn’t push. “That’s lovely Crowley. I’m glad everything is going well. Would anyone else care to check in?” He pulled his eyes from Crowley’s face and looked around the group.

Newt raised his hand. “Yes Newt?” Aziraphale prompted, knowing the man could be shy and needed to feel welcome. “Please tell us what’s going on with you this week.”

“Oh well, you see...I, well, I tried to help my gran with her computer,” Newt started. 

There was a chorus of knowing sighs and gentle eye rolls around the group.

“And well, yes, I ended up erasing some very important documents,” Newt confessed, looking distraught. “She didn’t yell or anything. She’s a really nice lady, only she just looked so… disappointed. And it really made me want to use to get rid of that terrible feeling inside. That I’d disappointed her.”

“And what did you do about that feeling Newt?” Aziraphale prompted gently.

“I went for a long walk,” Newt replied with a small grin. “And I drank a glass of water, like you suggested. And I distracted myself with a show I like on TV. And it worked!” His smile grew a little wider. 

Aziraphale smiled back. “And what happened with your grandmother?” he prompted, because processing through urges was important, but owning up to one's mistakes and trying to make amends was also tough for some recovering addicts. 

“I apologized, and I looked online and learned how to retrieve her data. I walked her through it, because you know me… I really shouldn’t touch computers when there’s high stakes involved.” Everyone around the group except Crowley nodded knowingly. Newt was horrible with computers. 

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Oh Newt! That’s wonderful! You did an excellent job. You didn’t hide from your problem. You managed your trigger to use and remained abstinent. Tell me you’re proud of yourself, you must be.” 

Newt blushed gently and ducked his head. “Yeah, spose,” he mumbled. Next to him, Anathema smiled warmly and patted him on the shoulder and his blush deepened. 

Aziraphale didn’t want to linger on Newt’s success for too long, to do so would be condescending, so he asked if anyone else had something to share. 

Adam raised his hand. Everyone tried very hard not to look shocked. 

“Um...yeah… so, my mom, she told me that I can’t hang out with my girlfriend anymore. Because we’re bad for each other.” he said. He didn’t look up, didn’t have an expression on his face, other than the usual mask of teen indifference, but the statement and its meaning brought the point across adequately.

“Oh, Adam, that’s unfortunate. What is your mother’s problem with your lady friend?”

Adam smirked a little, probably at Aziraphale’s use of the term ‘lady friend,’ but didn’t remark on it. “We uh...well we used to use together. And she got clean when I got clean, but mom just doesn’t believe that. She thinks Pepper’s a bad influence. Because she’s so intense and has purple hair and all that.”

Aziraphale knew he’d have to consider his words carefully. He could not categorically choose sides either way, and must coax Adam into finding his own solutions. The last thing he needed was an angry mother, descending on him for giving her son _bad ideas_. “Well Adam, have you told your mother in no uncertain terms that Pepper is clean and sober?” He couldn’t help but wonder if the girl were lying to Adam in order to keep him around, but he’d be damned if he said it out loud. This was the first he’d ever heard of Adam having a life outside of group. Let alone a girlfriend. 

“Yeah, I told her, a bunch of times, but she doesn’t believe me.”

“Do you think your mother would let you bring Pepper to group with you?” Aziraphale asked. It was a longshot, but what harm could it do? “Perhaps she’d be more amenable to letting you see Pepper if she were actively participating in some therapy surrounding her past use…” 

“Oh, I see her all the time anyway,” Adam said. “I just don’t tell my mom. But yeah. Mom would probably love that. She doesn’t have any real issues with Pepper, other than she thinks she’s a bit intense and she’s convinced she’s still using. Maybe I’ll ask her, mom that is, if I can bring Pepper next time.”

“Oh good!” Aziraphale was pleased with the outcome of Adam’s first and only check in in the group since he’d started coming. “That would be lovely.” 

Adam grinned, then shot his eyes over to Crowley, and in a flash of insight, Aziraphale knew. He knew that Adam was probably only opening up because one of his rock heroes was here to watch it happen. Crowley’s presence, had in a roundabout way, helped Adam to reach out for connection, and Aziraphale felt a flush of warm gratitude for the aloof red haired man, lounging in his chair. 

The rest of the meeting went smoothly, and as eight o’clock rolled around and people got up to leave, Aziraphale approached Crowley. “Mister Crowley,” he began.

“Just Crowley’s fine,” Crowley reminded him gently. 

“Oh yes, apologies, _Crowley_ , would you be able to stay behind and talk to me for a moment?” Aziraphale’s nerves were a jangled mess, his throat suddenly dry. He should _not_ have gone on the internet and looked up so many intimate things about Crowley. Now he had to deal with the real person, be alone with him, and was finding himself more than a little intimidated. 

Crowley shrugged. “Yeah, sure,” he said, smiling a little, he shoved his hands in his pockets and sat back down in his chair. 

Soon, the other group members said their goodbyes and left, and so he and Crowley were truly alone, and this did nothing to soothe Aziraphale’s sudden jitters. “So, first things first,” Aziraphale began, wanting to get the unpleasant bit over with. “I am sorry to have to tell you this, but we, Lofton Cares House as an organization, do not allow dark glasses to be worn when group is in session. Well...outside of a medical need that is. The reason being tha that…'' he stammered to a stop, because Crowley had obligingly removed his shades and now he was looking down into the most beautiful pair of pale amber eyes he’d ever seen in his life. Their colour, a light, unearthly topaz, had not translated well in the photos from the previous night, and Aziraphale had mistakenly thought that they were blue. 

“Yeah. No problem,” Crowley replied. “I get it.”

“Right...thank you,” Aziraphale said, dragging his attention back to the task at hand. “Ah, my second thing, and I say this with all due respect, is that clearly young Adam has a bit of a star struck crush on you, and I’d hate it if.. Well..”

“I shouldn't encourage it? I should keep up good boundaries? Is that what you’re saying? Because I agree.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Well, yes… I was going to ask that you just stay aware that he is only opening up because you’re here. He’s… well, he’s never really shared during check ins before, and so you have quite a bit of power over him apparently and-”

“Yes. I understand. I’ll be careful. Won’t be a bad influence.” Crowley smiled and it did something to his eyes that very nearly took Aziraphale’s breath away.

“Oh good. Erm...thank you Mi- Crowley. I very much appreciate that.” 

Crowley stood suddenly and Aziraphale fought not to let his eyes play over the man’s body as it unfolded from his chair. He was so lanky, so long and elegant, like some exotic serpent, covered in black denim. “I was wondering a few things myself,” Crowley said, fixing Aziraphale with a questioning look, tacitly asking permission to speak. 

“Oh certainly! I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have.” Aziraphale swallowed, noting again how very dry his throat had become. 

“Firstly, I want you to know I like it here a lot,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale resented the spark of happiness that burst to life inside his chest upon hearing that Crowley _approved_ of Aziraphale’s group. “And I want to keep coming back. But… I can’t, and I mean this with the utmost respect, I _cannot_ have _anyone_ finding out about it. Yeah, I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines, people know I had a messy past. But I stopped the shenanigans, the outbursts a long time ago. My agent told the press that I’d gotten clean back in 09, but the drinking.. I just couldn’t seem to kick that until maybe two weeks ago? So, if the public knew that I was still… you know.. Struggling with alcohol… it wouldn’t be pretty. You understand don’t you.” 

Aziraphale nodded, suppressing a mild flash of irritation at Crowley’s presumption that he would rush around town, telling all of his friends that he had a famous person in his group. He hadn’t even heard of the man before last week, not to mention that such a thing was strictly against facility policy and federal HIPPA laws. And furthermore, he got the distinct impression that the public would care far less about Crowley’s personal failings now, two decades after his fame had been at its peak, but he didn’t remark on that. “Of course Crowley. All the services we provide here are strictly confidential. The only exception is if you plan on committing a murder. Then the courts can force me to give up information on you. You’re not thinking of committing any murders are you?” He laughed nervously.

Crowley luckily, took Aziraphale’s question for the joke it was and chuckled warmly. “Nope! Not in the slightest. Glad we got that out of the way. There _is_ one more thing I’d like to ask though.”

“Oh certainly. What can I help you with?” Aziraphale was relieved that they’d cleared up so many uncomfortable subjects in such a short time, and felt that perhaps he and Crowley wouldn’t have to have as adversarial an association as he’d assumed. 

“Would you… I don’t know. Would you like to go get a drink?” There was a shy sort of hope reflected in the gleaming amber of Crowley’s eyes, mixed with a glint of the kind of interest that made Aziraphale’s breath suddenly come faster. _Oh my_. 

“I well..I…” Speech abandoned him once again. He was vaguely aware that his mouth had dropped open in surprise. 

“It’s OK if you don’t, you know… swing that way, or if I’m not your cup of tea. I get it. I just thought you were really cute and well…” Crowley shrugged, grinning like a boy with his hand caught in the sweets jar. 

Aziraphale’s mind flooded with images of what it might be like to make love to the man standing before him, and, unable to handle the influx of pure pornographic lust, shorted out completely. “I...I...that...that would be highly unprofessional and a breach of boundaries. I’m your counselor.” he said, a little more harshly than he’d intended. 

Crowley rallied swiftly. His eyes grew guarded, but he took the rejection well. Smiling, he shook his head reassuringly. “Oh, no worries. I won’t press the issue. I figured you couldn’t, but… you don't get anywhere by not asking right?”

Aziraphale stared at him numbly. 

“Well, I think I’ve made a fool of myself enough for tonight. I’ll head home shall I?” Crowley picked his leather jacket off the back of his chair and shrugged it on.

“I hope this won’t affect your decision to come back again,” Aziraphale blurted out. 

“Oh no, don’t worry. I’m actually here for the therapy.. I just thought..” he let the implication hang in the air, and Aziraphale rushed to fill in the unspoken words. 

“That’s good to hear Crowley. I’m glad you like it here and plan on returning. I think it will help...with your… struggles. And I don’t want you to feel as if I’m not flattered, I’m very-”

“It’s OK, really it is,” Crowley placated him with gentle motions of his hands as he turned to go. “Let's leave it. We’re good.” and with that, he walked out, hips swinging, red hair glowing under the neon lights of the meeting room. 

Aziraphale watched him leave, then watched as the door slowly swung shut behind him, closing with a soft click. He stood there, working to organize his racing thoughts for a few moments until he remembered that he had work to do. He refolded the chairs and stacked them in a corner of the room, cleaned off the coffee and tea table and switched off the Keurig. By the time he stood at the door, ready to lock up and leave, his shock had worn off and he was able to think more rationally about what had just transpired. 

On the bus on the way home, his thoughts returned over and over to Crowley’s suggestion that they get a drink together. Of course the man wanted more than just a drink. It had been a clear invitation to go home with Crowley (or to invite Crowley home with him). Aziraphale was torn between kicking himself for turning the man down, and second guessing Crowley’s motives. Regarding the former, yes, they were counselor and client. Yes it was unprofessional and wrong. But when in God’s good name would Aziraphale ever have the chance to sleep with a man like Crowley otherwise? 

Still, no matter how many times he entertained changing his mind, telling Crowley yes instead of no, he knew it was for the best to abstain. These desperate randy urges to toss professionalism out the window, however understandable they might be, weren’t healthy for either of them in regard to Crowely’s eventual recovery, or Aziraphale’s reputation as a counselor.

And as for the latter, the other man’s intentions, he was left with the nagging feeling that Crowley had been after a one night stand. A quick shag. Why else would he have asked Aziraphale out? So that they could start dating and move in together? Get a cat and matching jumpers? Unlikely. 

Crowley, apparently interested in men, despite what all the pictures on the internet implied, was still able to have anyone he wanted. He was stunningly handsome, sexy in a glossy photo shoot sort of way, and famous to boot. His motives for wanting to sleep with a frumpy drugs counselor in a small town couldn’t be for any other reason than boredom. Boredom was death to sobriety and many people in recovery either resorted to spur of the moment relationships or rash plans to compensate for the thrill that using once gave them. 

Or perhaps, and this made Aziraphale wince with shame, Crowley needed to feel Aziraphale’s gratitude as an ego boost. 

In Aziraphale’s estimation, Crowley was new to recovery, feeling restless from his recent sobriety and wanted something to distract him. And while Aziraphale wanted Crowley so much that he could almost taste the man’s skin under his tongue, he had no intention of being that distraction. He had his pride. And short term things didn’t work for him. And long term things with a man like Crowley were out of the question.

Despite his worries over Crowley’s intentions, he could not help feeling more than a little flattered to have gained the man’s interest. Unfortunately, this would possibly make future meetings quite distracting. 

His bus pulled up to the stop, and Aziraphale, jostled out of his worries by the sudden jolt of the vehicle’s brakes, rose and exited. He’d go home, make himself a nice cuppa and pick up his latest novel and put Crowley out of his mind. Yes. That is what he’d do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mentions of homophobia, internalized homophobia, living in the closet

Crowley threw his keys in the bowl on the table next to his flat’s front door and threw himself onto the sofa. Despite his casual attitude in the Lofton Cares House group session, his week had _not_ been going all that well. The gig he’d mentioned during group hadn’t been for a musical event. Someone wanted him to be the spokesperson for a brand of men’s shaving products, and while the money was good, Crowley couldn’t quite bring himself to sign on for something so incredibly degrading at the moment. Nothing wrong with men’s shaving products. But when you started out your career singing and playing guitar for thousands of screaming fans, doing a series of adverts about how this particular brand of shaving cream left him feeling smooth and clean felt like a drop too low. 

Beez had called him up the day before and let him know that they’d be in the states for a visit soon, and would he like to go get a drink, and he’d had to remind his former bassist (yet again) that he didn’t do that anymore. To be fair, this was the second time in ten years he’d tried to get sober, and so he couldn’t blame the diminutive, black haired bass player for assuming he had fallen back off the wagon. He liked Beez. He always had, but they were a little bit oblivious when it came to human emotions. Not the best person to turn to when he felt like he was made of eggshells in a world full of blunt objects. 

And then he’d gone and made a pass at his drug counselor. That hadn’t been the smartest move. He’d been rejected, of course he had. The man, Mr. Fell, was so well put together, so kind and sweet tempered. He clearly didn’t struggle with the sorts of inner demons Crowley battled with on a daily basis. Those clear, sparkling gray-green eyes of his probably hadn’t seen the inside of a jail cell, or the grimy pavement outside of a pub at eye level at three in the morning after being tossed out for being disorderly. 

He wouldn’t have said anything, actually hadn’t planned on saying anything. But the man had asked him to stay after group for a chat, and that fact alone had launched a very filthy fantasy about exactly why his stunning (and clearly gay) drug counselor wanted to speak to him alone. Mr. Fell. That was such a sexy name. Crowley imagined being on his knees in front of the man, begging to be allowed to suck him off. _Please Mr. Fell. I promise to be good, if only you’d let me suck it… please._ And Mr. Fell would put his hands into Crowley’s hair and then… 

He’d quickly admonished himself for the naughty imaginings and had dutifully refocused on the actual content of the man’s words. It was charming how nervous Mr. Fell got when telling Crowley to take off his shades during group, and when addressing the situation with Adam. Everything about him was charming, from his pale blond curls to his cute patrician nose, to his ridiculous bow tie. What was his first name? Crowley had seen it, on the Lofton Cares House website, but it was very long and frightfully old fashioned, and he’d forgotten it now. 

He fished his mobile out of his jacket pocket and brought up the tab for the facility’s website again. _Aziraphale_. Dear Lord. That was clunky. How did you call _that_ out in bed? Regardless, Crowley was willing to try. 

But now it looked like he wouldn’t get the chance. He’d asked the man out for a drink and had been abruptly and quite clearly reminded of the unprofessionalism of such a question. Crowley, duly chastised, had let it go easily, telling himself there were plenty of other fish in the sea, he’d meet someone soon. 

But then, on the drive home, his mind returned again and again to Mr. Fell’s flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, and that soft mouth. Fell’s nervousness, his discomfort in his own skin, was so very familiar to Crowley, who felt the same thing, he only hid it far better. 

And yet, beyond Mr. Fell’s anxious disposition, he was undeniably kind. Crowley had seen as much when he’d watched the counselor talk so gently and carefully to the other group members as they relayed painful experiences. And Crowley could see something special, a glint of mischief in the man’s gaze that drew him in, made him want to learn more. 

He told himself that Aziraphale Fell had only turned him down because of their professional association and the inherent power dynamics therein. Not because he wasn’t attracted, and certainly not because he didn’t fancy men. Fell was, to put it bluntly, as gay as a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. His delicate mannerisms, his fluttery hands, like doves tethered to each wrist, his eyes when they not-so-subtly flicked down the length of Crowley’s body when they’d met only a few days ago. Everything about him screamed sexually repressed homosexual. 

The man needed a shag, and he needed one badly, and so did Crowley. And more than just shagging, he realized he was swiftly developing a little crush on Mr. Fell. How could he not? Everyone in the group clearly adored him. He was charming, witty, warm and friendly. _I bet he has a collection of little ceramic frogs or some such adorable nonsense,_ Crowley thought fondly. 

He could tell by where his thoughts were headed that he needed a distraction. Couldn’t go getting himself all tied up over a man he’d seen twice. He could already feel the gripping fingers of codependent obsession crawling up the back of his neck and tingling across his scalp. He always fell hard and fast for men he was attracted to. It made the blatant charade of heterosexuality for the fans seem hollow and meaningless by comparison. 

Yes Crowley liked women, had dated a few even before he’d realized that sex with the opposite sex, while pleasant, didn’t thrill him in the way sex with other men did. His agent had told him in no uncertain terms that his fan base was largely made up of teenagers, and teen girls wanted to pine over him, and pining over a man was far easier to do when you actually believed that he could love you back. Also, it was the 90s. Being gay was slowly gaining acceptance, but most straight people were OK with it happening “over there.” They were fine with strangers being gay. Or celebrities they didn’t care about. They were OK with their neighbors being gay. But their children? Their friends? Their cherished celebrity crushes? Not so much. Crowley had built a very lucrative career out of being desired by straight women and envied by straight men. He hadn’t been able to flaunt his real sexuality, or he’d have risked losing literally tens of millions in record deals, album sales, concert tours.

And so Crowley made friends with the hottest female celebrities and made sure to spend time with them in public places. There were rumors everywhere about whom he was dating, but he never really confirmed anything. That was plenty of fuel for people to assume he was shagging a long stream of starlets and other rock musicians. 

The worst part of being in the closet was that it became a habit. He had loved his success. Loved being adored and admired by millions and he’d loved all the money and privileges that came along with that life. Eventually, he grew to link success and love with pretending to be straight. This was very frustrating to the men he dated. Having to keep their relationships hush hush didn’t work for most men, who wanted to brag that they were dating a celebrity (even a has-been one). It had caused more than a few breakups, until Crowley had just resorted to hook ups and one night stands, with men he was fairly certain had no idea he’d once been the front man for one of the 90s most popular bands. He used condoms and barriers and got tested regularly, and somehow, miraculously, avoided the public eye. _That’s because no one cares anymore_ , supplied an uncharitable voice in his head.

But still, he found that the idea of being in the public eye, dating a man _for real_ … it just terrified him. Even now, now that his career had fizzled and the band had broken up. The thought of all those people, some of them likely still having pictures of him pinned up on the walls of their studies and rec rooms, thinking their teenage crush had been gay the whole time? It killed him a little inside.

Beez told him he had deeply internalized homophobia and a god complex, and perhaps they were right. He was, in all honesty, something of a self centered prick. It came with the territory didn’t it? Being rich, being famous, going to wild parties and having thousands of people complimenting you in the space of an average week. It did things to a person. It had certainly done a number on Crowley. 

He sighed regretfully as he zoomed in on and stared longingly at the picture of Aziraphale Fell, looking very officious and a bit awkward in his professional photo on the Lofton website. Now when had he opened up that tab again? He clicked his mobile to sleep mode and got up from the sofa, suddenly full of manic energy. He wanted a drink. What had Fell said about avoiding urges to use? Take a walk? Drink a glass of water?

Crowley pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and trainers. He’d go for a run. There were lots of parks around here. He’d drive to one of them and take a good, long run. If he wore his shades no one would recognize him. _Face it arsehole, no one would recognize you, even if you didn’t_ , that same, uncharitable voice in his head reminded him. Swearing under his breath at his own idiocy, Crowley grabbed his keys and left his flat once more.


	4. Chapter 4

The weeks rolled by, and Crowley came to every single meeting. Soon, everyone did forget that he was famous. Or rather, the novelty effectively wore off. And eventually, he did speak more openly about his addiction. 

It was perhaps two months after Crowley had started attending the meetings that the first crack in his facade of aloof devil-may-care coolness appeared. He raised his hand and requested to speak during a check in, and Aziraphale, surprised and pleased, nodded encouragingly at him.

“Hey, well, this past week has been rough,” Crowley began, and Aziraphale tamped down the small spark of hope he felt that this maddenly cavalier man would finally open up a little. He waited, letting Crowley ready himself to say something, _anything_ more raw or vulnerable than his usual, throwaway lines of “I’m doing OK.” or “Not much.” 

“Well, I..uh.. I went out with a friend of mine I hadn’t seen in a while,” Crowley began haltingly. “And they, well, they used to play the bass in Dark Angel. It was good to see them again, and we had a good time, it was just…” he paused, seeming to reconsider what he was about to say. 

“Yes Crowley?” Aziraphale prompted gently. He didn’t want to scare Crowley off, but he also didn’t want him to run out of steam and sink back into his casual attitude.

“They told me that they joined a new band. A popular one and that they were going on tour. And that… that stung a bit. Not that I envy them really. I’m done with all that tour nonsense. I’m too old and tired for sleeping on a tour bus and eating take away for months on end. But… it made me feel like I’d been left behind. Like… like I wasn’t relevant. Like I wasn’t... worth anything I guess.” He lost momentum and his lovely amber eyes clouded with worry. 

“Oh Crowley, I could see how that would make you feel a little left behind,” Aziraphale kept his voice as soft and nurturing as he could. “What did you do about those feelings?”

“I’ve been listening to what you tell people in group,” Crowley said cautiously. “And when I feel something negative, and it makes me want to solve it by having a drink, I’ve started going for a run instead.”

“That’s wonderful!” Aziraphale exclaimed, and Crowley gave him a small smile. “I wonder Crowley, if you don’t mind me asking, do you have any hobbies, a job, or some volunteer work that makes you feel like you _do_ have worth? Is there anything you’re creating or doing or working on right now that can be used to decrease your sense of feeling this worthlessness?”

Crowley seemed to think for a moment, then shrugged. “No,” he said, “I don’t really think that I do. I mean. I took up running. But that’s about it.”

“If you’re open to it,” Aziraphale said, stepping carefully, not wanting to push too much, “I’d like you to give this some thought this week. Things you can do on your own to increase your feelings of making a difference, or being useful in ways you enjoy. I think it will really help with your feelings of abandonment regarding your friend’s new situation.” 

Crowley nodded, looking pensive, but also seeming to genuinely consider Aziraphale’s words. In order to give him some time to think, Aziraphale opened up the floor to the next person who wanted to share. Shadwell complained for a few moments about his noisy neighbors, and how they made him want to drink, or, alternately to toss large rocks at their windows, and the group’s focus moved away from Crowley. 

Aziraphale cast a few furtive looks in Crowley’s direction as the meeting wore on, checking in on him to gague how his last words were sinking in. The man looked thoughtful, but also as if he were really listening to the other group members. As Anathema talked about how her mother had left off her toxic behaviors and had actually opened up to the idea of sobriety, Crowley smiled and congratulated her along with the other group members. He was indeed learning and growing as weeks went by. Aziraphale was extremely pleased. 

He was beyond pleased. He was in fact struggling daily with a very strong crush on Anthony Crowley. And he knew, in every way it is possible for a well educated man with a degree in psychology and counseling to know, how very inappropriate these feelings were. 

Well, to be fair, it was not the _feelings_ themselves that were inappropriate. Feelings are never wrong. Only _actions_ are wrong, and there were a wide array of actions that Aziraphale contemplated on a regular basis that would not be appropriate at all to this situation. Actions like climbing into Crowley’s lap and kissing him. Actions like slowly undoing the remaining buttons on the red haired man’s maddeningly snug shirts and running reverent fingertips down the length of his chest and belly. Actions like… perhaps it was best not to think about these things while he was sitting in group. Such thoughts tended to run rampant and distract him from his focus completely. 

He returned his attention to Newt, who was talking about signing up for a course in computer programming. 

“I thought it would help me, you know, improve, so that maybe I didn’t break _every_ single computer I touch,” he said. 

“I think that’s a fantastic idea Newt,” Aziraphale enthused, smiling warmly at him. He really was very proud of Newt for taking the initiative and trying to broaden his skill set. 

Pepper, Adam’s girlfriend had started attending as well, and she proved herself to be a sweet girl overall. Yes, she was a bit intense, very dedicated to several social justice causes and charity organizations, but since she was a force for good in the world, Aziraphale overlooked her sharp denunciations. She routinely went on mini-rants, condemning feminine beauty standards and shot out not-so-subtle criticisms of Tracy’s choice in hairspray (it apparently damaged the environment). Aziraphale though simply saw her as a young woman trying to find balance. She would eventually learn that her causes would gain more interest if she left off being accusatory and confrontational and worked with people to help educate them. He gently reminded her of this when she got a bit too worked up. She added a lot of extra spark and color to the group (with her purple dreadlocks and multiple piercings) and it was good to see Adam open up even more, now that Crowley and Pepper were in attendance. 

The meeting wound down at the usual time and everyone got ready to leave. As people filed out the door, Aziraphale noticed that Crowley was lingering behind. As the door swung closed after Tracy, he sauntered over to Aziraphale.

“So hey,” he began, and Aziraphale, busying himself with cleaning up the drinks table so as to cover for his sudden nervousness, turned to face him. 

“Yes Crowley? Can I help you?” _get out of those clothes,_ he finished subvocally.

“Yeah actually,” Crowley scrubbed a hand through his hair and put his other hand on one jutting hip. “I was wondering if you had any ideas of hobbies and stuff that would help me feel more useful. You mentioned it in group, and I’m having a tough time coming up with something.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale, a little surprised by the question, stopped in the middle of his task and straightened, giving Crowley his full attention. “I suppose that depends on what interests you. What do you usually like to do?”

“You mean outside of sing, play the guitar and drink too much?” Crowley asked with a sly grin. “I’m honestly not sure. It seems that I spent a few too many years partying and traveling the world, and now that I’m sort of stuck in one place with no alcohol to drink, I’m feeling a bit lost.” 

“I see,” Aziraphale tossed his fitsful of napkins and empty creamer containers in the trash and dusted his hands off against his trousers. “Well, that would depend on what you used to enjoy before you became...famous?” It seemed such a strange thing, fame. Like a disease that everyone somehow wanted to contract but that was still uncomfortable to speak about. 

“I’m really not sure. The usual kid stuff. Dinosaurs. Astronomy. I was really excited about baseball for about a year, but I gave that up when I saw my first music video.”

“Are there any other instruments you’ve always wanted to play but didn’t learn?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not that I can think of,” Crowley responded. “I play the bass relatively well, I can do a good job on the drums and I’m great at guitar. Never wanted to pick up the violin or anything.”

“How about volunteer work?” Aziraphale asked. 

“You mean, working for no money?” Crowley screwed his face up in an expression of distaste and Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“It’s not all bad you know. It gives a person a real sense of accomplishment, not to mention knowing that you’ve helped those less fortunate than yourself.”

“Yeah, maybe I could look into that at some point in future,” he paused and looked thoughtful. “Hobbies? What kinds of hobbies do people pick up these days?”

“Oh there are many,” Aziraphale, warming a bit to his role as Crowley’s advisor, searched his brain for hobbies that Crowley might enjoy. “There’s always the standard stamp collecting, knitting, crochet, model trains, gardening and plants, art, writing..”

“Plants?” Crowley’s eyes narrowed with interest. “I’ve always liked plants. Quiet, dignified little buggers. And some of them are really interesting. My gran had a spider plant that I swear was eighteen feet across.”“If you like plants, there are several places I could recommend!” Aziraphale was happy to have landed on something so educational and wholesome that Crowley seemed to be drawn to. 

“Really?” Crowley asked, looking grateful and Aziraphale felt his chest go warm, and that warmth travel northward to populate his cheeks. 

“Certainly. Why there’s a gorgeous nursery, right here in Lofton. It’s the colder months now, but they have a vast array of plants in their indoor enclosures.”

“Oh, well, I’m not familiar with the area. I feel a bit awkward, showing up, not knowing much about plants…” Crowley’s mouth turned down and his eyes clouded a bit with doubt. 

“Well, I could always come with you, the first time. If you think it would help you feel more comfortable,” Aziraphale offered. What harm could it do? He’d driven Anathema to a therapist’s appointment once when she’d had no transportation. Why, this could almost be considered a Lofton Cares counseling outing.

“You’d do that for me?” Crowley asked, gratitude making his face veritably glow with a charming grin.

“Of course I would,” Aziraphale replied. “It would be my pleasure.” He thought for a moment. “It’s not a date though Crowley. I have to be quite insistent on that fact. There can’t be any sort of strings attached.”

“Oh calm down Mr. Fell,” Crowley said, his grin getting wider. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.”

Aziraphale, who didn’t actually want Crowley to keep his hands to himself, but knew this was for the best for both of them either way, nodded with a shy smile of his own. “Well, that would be very nice then. Are you free Saturday?”

“It just so happens I am,” Crowley replied. 

“Capital! I’ll meet you at the nursery at, shall we say 9?”

“In the _morning_? How about 11.”

“Alright then, 11 it is.”

Crowley hadn’t stopped grinning, and Aziraphale realized that his own face was wreathed in a broad smile, and with some effort replaced it with a more sober expression. “Well, I need to clean up here, so, I’ll see you Saturday.” If he let Crowley continue standing there, they’d keep chatting, then Crowley would walk him out, then he’d offer him a ride home, because it was dark. Aziraphale could see it all play out, and in his mind. How it ended with him kissing Crowley on his front step, then inside his front door, then in the bedroom while they both frantically shed their clothing. And that was not acceptable, not for either of them at this point in Crowley’s recovery. So he cleared his throat and went to pick up a chair, folding it and walking it over to the stack of other chairs leaning against the wall. 

Crowley, realizing he’d been politely dismissed, swung his way toward the door. “Alright Mr. Fell. I’ll see you Saturday!” 

Aziraphale waved a distracted goodby to him over his shoulder and returned to folding and stacking the chairs. Saturday could not come soon enough. He worried that he was about to make a big mistake by meeting Crowley, but then remembered that it would only be a mistake if he couldn’t avoid temptation, couldn’t keep things nice and platonic. And Crowley really did need help, with constructing a life outside of the one he was accustomed to. He needed a hobby or two and a new perspective, and it was Aziraphale’s job wasn’t it? To guide him toward finding those things?

He finished folding the chairs and closed up for the evening, resolving as he walked toward the bus stop to be the soul of chaste companionship and steadfast emotional support on Saturday.


	5. Chapter 5

Saturday arrived in the usual fashion, despite Aziraphale’s repeated wishes that it would come sooner. He may have built this helpful jaunt to the nursery up in his head a bit too much in the intervening days. He’d funneled some of his repressed sexual attraction for Crowley into doing a lot of research into different varieties of plant, and thought he’d landed on a few that Crowley could easily handle without too much complicated care and feeding. 

Aziraphale planned on Ubering to the nursery, being that it was a bit too far to walk, and the bus route didn’t have a stop nearby. He’d been there several times and knew the plant layout relatively well. It was where he went to buy his annual, small Christmas trees (first, when he’d lived with Gabriel, a large one whose top had brushed the ceiling of their living room, then after the divorce, smaller ones that could sit on a table by his front window). Also, he was fond of picking up poinsettias from there as gifts, and pumpkins for Halloween carving. 

He arrived precisely at 11 and looked around for Crowley’s now familiar, slender, dark clad figure among the other customers milling about. When, after a few moments spent looking around, Crowley was nowhere to be seen, Aziraphale wandered down an aisle of mini cacti. They were one of two plants he wanted to suggest to Crowley as possible projects. He smiled at the adorable row of little succulents. Each was sporting different configurations of plump, dark green leaves or poofs of tiny spikes in their terra cotta pots on the shelf lining one wall of the greenhouse. 

Fifteen minutes later, Crowley had still not arrived. Aziraphale fished his mobile out of his pocket. He rarely used it unless it was for emergencies, but had given his number to Crowley a few weeks ago when the man had asked if he could reach out to make certain group was still meeting in inclement weather, or on holidays. Sure enough, there was a text notification. 

**_Running 30 min late_ ** it said. Aziraphale felt a flash of irritation. He was the sort of person who was relentlessly punctual. He’d been raised to see punctuality as a sign of respect. Not that Crowley was actively trying to disrespect him, but people who were perpetually late still irked him. He took a deep breath and decided to make the most of his extra alone time to look around for a gift for his sister Uriel. Her birthday was coming up, and he never knew what to buy for her. She’d married a wealthy investment banker and she herself owned a posh clothing shop in the heart of London, and so the couple had everything they could ever want. Perhaps a few packets of rare flower seeds would do? It would at the very least show Uriel that he’d tried. She could be a tad judgmental about him, seeing his bookish, homebody existence as impossible to understand. 

He wandered past the rows of flower boxes, full of brightly colored peonies and mums and violets and over to a wall of seed packets. He’d selected several rare and interesting varieties when he heard the soft clearing of a throat behind him. He turned and saw Crowley, leaning casually against a shelf of pots, regarding Aziraphale from behind his dark shades. The sight of the man’s copper-auburn hair, loose and falling to his shoulder in gentle waves, and his long, slender body, incased as usual in tight, black denim and some slinky sort of half opened button down shirt, hit Aziraphale like a punch to the center of his chest. 

“Oh! Hello!” he exclaimed, hoping his suddenly galloping heartbeat would calm itself, feeling his cheeks heat with what was probably a ridiculously obvious blush. “I didn’t see you come in.” 

“You looked pretty absorbed in what you’re doing,” Crowley responded with a sly, one sided grin, and Aziraphale prayed to any god out there that listened to frumpy gay men, that he could make it through this excursion without throwing himself at Crowley. “What _are_ you doing?” the red haired man asked, his eyebrows lifting charmingly above the rim of his shades. 

“Oh, well, I’m picking out a selection of flower seeds to send to my sister in London. She’s quite posh, and successful, and I never know what to give her. So I thought perhaps...she’d at least be charmed by these…” he looked down at the top packet of the small pile he’d selected, “blue passion flowers.” _Dear Lord in Heaven why did the word ‘passion’ need to be at the top of the pile?_

“I hope she likes them,” Crowley responded, still grinning. 

Aziraphale realized that he was staring and shook himself. “I...I’ve done some research into plants that I thought you might like,” he said. “Would you care to follow me?” Crowley nodded and so Aziraphale turned away and led him back toward the area of the nursery where the cacti were housed. 

“Have you given any thought to the subject?” Aziraphale asked as they reached the shelf holding the small, desert plants.

“Not really,” Crowley replied, sounding casual and disaffected again in a way that made Aziraphale a little irritable, then made him wonder how much longer he’d be pinging back and forth between irritation and pure, unadulterated lust where Crowley was concerned.

“Oh, well, I did a little bit of looking around on the internet and found a few plants that are quite lovely yet low maintenance. I hope they speak to you somehow.”

“They have talking plants here?” Crowley mused, and Aziraphale opened his mouth to clarify that it had just been a figure of speech when he caught the man smirking at him from behind his shades and smiled sheepishly. 

“These here are succulents and cacti. Little, wee ones that you water once a week. Aren’t they darling?” Aziraphale stepped back so that Crowley could look at the row of plump little plants. 

“Oh, these are cute little buggers aren’t they?” he said, his voice going all soft and high pitched, as if he were looking at a row of kittens or puppies. He picked up one small cacti and turned it about in his long fingered hands, inspecting it from all angles. “I like this one,” he said. “He looks like a scrapper.” 

Aziraphale, not to be so easily put off his quest, motioned for Crowley to follow him deeper into the shelves of potted plants. “Back here, there are some snake plants I’d like you to have a look at,” he said, and Crowley obediently sauntered after him, bringing the small cactus with them. 

“They call these mother in law plants, because they never die,” he mentioned, and was rewarded by Crowley’s snort of laughter as they approached the row of tall, dark green plants that had long, tongue-like fronds. Crowley looked them over appreciatively and asked a few questions. Aziraphale did his best to answer, which was quite well indeed, being that he’d stayed up until after midnight doing plant research. All of this was done under the guise of wanting to help out one of Lofton Cares House’s clients in need, but he knew, just under the surface that it was really because he was smitten with Crowley.

They spent another enjoyable hour or so talking about plants and walking around the nursery. Crowley told Aziraphale about life when he was touring. The constant travel from city to city. Waking up as the plane touched down in a new place and losing track of where he was. He told him about benders he went on, times he took things a little too far. Aziraphale was pleased that Crowley felt like he could open up to Aziraphale like this. And it was a salient reminder that this was in fact Aziraphale’s job. To help Crowley open up about his past and help keep him on the straight and narrow (and sober) path. Aziraphale’s job was _not_ to traipse about in a plant nursery all afternoon, grinning like a fool at everything Crowley said, while simultaneously imagining what it would feel like to kiss him or drive his fingers into that wavy, flame coloured hair. 

Crowley ended up buying fifteen different plants and had to have them delivered as there was not enough room in his zippy looking, low to the ground sports car to carry them all back to his flat. “This means I’ll have room to give you a ride home,” he said, smiling warmly at Aziraphale as the nursery employees began to load his purchases into the back of a van with the company logo emblazoned on the side. It was almost two in the afternoon, and Aziraphale didn’t want their time together to end. If this had been an actual date, he’d have invited Crowley to go get something to eat or drink. And he’d definitely have accepted the ride home. Would most definitely have invited Crowley inside. 

But this wasn’t a date, and he himself had made that very clear. “Oh, no need for that,” Aziraphale said, smiling to cover for the conflicting regret and relief he was feeling. “I’ll simply call for an Uber,”

“Nonsense,” Crowley dismissed his talk of Ubering home with a wave of his hand. “It’s the least I can do to repay you for all you’ve done to help me today.” Seeing Aziraphale's hesitation, he added, “you don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Fell. I told you I’d keep my hands to myself. You can trust me.” He grinned then, tilting his head down to give Aziraphale a peek at his gleaming, amber coloured eyes, and Aziraphale’s breath hitched in his throat. It was specifically the sort of expression that did not make Crowley look particularly trustworthy.

 _I don’t want you to keep your hands to yourself,_ Aziraphale thought, as he smiled and nodded and walked over to the passenger side of Crowley’s car. _I want your hands all over me_ . But instead of voicing such terribly unprofessional things, he opened the door and slid awkwardly into the leather bucket seat of Crowley’s car. Crowley got into the passenger seat, closing the door, and Aziraphale was suddenly struck by that intimacy when you first sit next to someone new in a car. How the car becomes this bubble of enclosed space, shutting out sound, and often a good bit of light (Crowley’s windows were slightly tinted). How you and the person seated next to you are now sitting with your arms and legs far closer, almost touching. How you could smell them better all of a sudden, their shampoo, their cologne. He could hear the creak of the leather as Crowley shifted his narrow hips to get comfortable in the driver’s seat. Car intimacy. Was that a thing? Well, whatever it was, Azirpahale found his sub-vocal, hidden imaginings of kissing and touching Crowley didn’t exactly _decrease_ once they were seated close to one another in an intimate setting. The man turned his head to ask Aziraphale his address for the maps app on his mobile, and Aziraphale was looking suddenly into his bright, mischievous eyes. Crowley had removed his shades. _Oh my._ Aziraphale stammered out his address, and swiftly looked forward, out the front window as his cheeks heated. 

All thoughts of romantic fantasies were swiftly erased however once Crowley pulled abruptly into traffic and sped off down the road at an incredible speed. “Dear merciful God in heaven!” Aziraphale exclaimed before he could help himself, gripping frantically at the door frame for support. Next, Crowley dodged around a truck that was going at a perfectly reasonable speed, and then ducked back into the non-passing lane with a swiftness that made Aziraphale’s stomach lurch. 

“I’ve been told my driving skills are… enthusiastic,” remarked Crowley, and though Aziraphale now lacked the courage to drag his eyes from the road ahead of them, he could swear he could _hear_ the man smiling. 

“That’s one way to put it,” Aziraphale replied, then “Watch out! That man’s in the crosswalk!”

“He could see me coming, he’s fine,” Crowley said with a smirk in his voice. 

They flew onto the highway and rocketed down the fast lane, dodging cars at a speed that had Aziraphale clenching every muscle in his body, some he was pretty sure he hadn’t used in years. 

Mercifully, the ride was a short one of less than ten minutes, and soon, they were pulling up to a rather abrupt stop in front of Aziraphale’s small rental property. 

“So this is where you live?” Crowley looked out the window at the little house with white shutters and a small hedge out front, and Aziraphale suddenly felt quite provincial. “It’s cute,” he said, turning his megawatt smile once again in Aziraphale’s direction. 

“Thank you for the ride,” Aziraphale responded. “I am almost certain we broke every traffic law imaginable on the way here.”

Crowley laughed, rich and deep, and even though Aziraphale hadn’t in any way meant it as a joke, he felt himself smile in response as Crowley flashed his light amber eyes at him. It was hard not to. “Well, I’m glad that you’ve found yourself a hobby,” he said, caught on Crowley’s gaze and unable to look away. “I’m certain you’ll adore the plants and swiftly develop a green thumb.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Crowley replied. He held Aziraphale’s eyes, and for a heart pounding moment, Aziraphale was almost certain the man intended to lean in and kiss him. “Well, I’ll see you at group,” Crowley said with a cheerful smile, thankfully breaking the tension. 

Aziraphale shook himself out of the trance he’d fallen into and nodded, searching blindly for the door handle. He found it at last and then pulled himself up and out of the low car seat with a grunt of effort. Feeling old and clumsy and not at all glamorous, he swiftly rounded the front of the car and headed for his front door. He heard the whirr of Crowley’s driver’s side window rolling down, then the man’s voice rang out. “Mr. Fell!” 

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks and turned around, “Yes Crowley?” 

“Thank you,” Crowley said. “You’ve helped me a lot today. In more ways than maybe you realize. I just… I appreciate it is all.” 

Aziraphale could sense his sincerity, a thing he hadn’t seen much from Crowley, who’d been too busy being charming, unaffected, cocky over the past several weeks. He smiled warmly at the copper haired man leaning out of the window. Crowley’s shades were back in place, his face once more largely unreadable. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “It’s my job, but it’s still ever so nice to hear that I’ve helped.” 

“You have,” Crowley replied. Then he waved at Aziraphale and, after gunning the engine in a far too youthful display of bravado, he sped away down the small, tree lined street outside of Aziraphale’s residence.


	6. Chapter 6

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit_. Crowley, pacing in his flat, waiting for his large van-load of plants to arrive, was having something of a panic attack. Not the full blown sort he’d had a few times, where it felt as if he couldn’t breathe because there was someone sitting on his chest. But the minor kind, where he sweated and clenched his teeth and couldn’t keep still, and where his thoughts kept cycling over and over again, chasing one another through his mind like leaves on a windy fall day.

He’d bought four hundred dollars worth of plants and had no idea how to take care of them. And why had he done that? Because he’d developed a massive, fatal crush on his ridiculously adorable drug counselor, who was not at all available for a relationship. When would he stop making these rash sorts of decisions and just relax into the boredom and ho hum sameness of life without fame and alcohol?

But once he’d seen the delighted expression on Mr. Fell’s face when he’d shown Crowley around the nursery, all he’d wanted to do was make Fell smile more, make him glow like he did when he was happy. He wanted Fell’s approval. He wanted Fell’s ridiculously beautiful face to crack into one of those brilliant smiles, and he wanted to be the cause of it.

This is all about you isn’t it? His brain supplied. You want the man to feel the same way about you that you do about him so that it can feed your ego. Part of him knew this was true, but also, that there was more than wanting to be desired wrapped up in his feelings for Aziraphale Fell. Yes, the man was astoundingly attractive to Crowley, but he was also clever, funny, knowledgeable, caring and kind and supportive. Crowley was haunted by visions of them cuddled up on the couch together watching an old movie. Or strolling through the park, hand in hand. He hadn’t felt this way about anyone to date in his life, this strong urge to become domestic.

But where were his true feelings? It was a thing addicts struggled with, differentiating between what was healthy and normal and what was manic and codependent. What was it exactly that was feeding his urge to gain Mr. Fell’s approval so badly?

And then there was the fact that he adored going to Fell’s group therapy meetings. And that he was really starting to like the rag tag group of clients that showed up every week. Adam and Pepper, Ana, Newt, Tracy and even Shadwell, who’d asked him loads of questions about his experiences when meeting Paul MacCartney and George Harrison while on tour stop in Los Angeles back in 1998. They were all so different and yet all fascinating characters in their own right. He and Ana had traded hair care secrets and enthused about their love of Astrology and numerology. He and Newt both adored the IT Crowd and had started throwing quotes at each other at group meetings. Tracy clearly considered him an honorary nephew of sorts and would periodically bring him baked goods and books she thought he should read (the books he guiltily put on a shelf and forgot to look at, though he did wolf down the muffins and biscuits).

Yet as a recovering addict, he had to be careful of boundaries. He had to remind himself that these people weren’t actually his family. Just a group of strangers he’d gotten to know at a group therapy meeting. He couldn’t spend Christmas with them, or call them at 3am when he was feeling extra low. He couldn’t cling to them for support, could he? And Fell, he couldn’t do anything he really wanted to do with Mr. Fell. No kissing, no hugging. No slowly removing that silly bowtie and licking the skin underneath it, feeling the throb of Fell’s heartbeat through Crowley’s tongue. A pulse of heat in Crowley’s low belly reminded him that he was entering dangerous territory where thoughts of Aziraphale Fell were concerned.

At first, he’d wanked to thoughts of Mr. Fell semi-relentlessly. He’d developed quite a catalogue of kinky, teacher/student therapist/client scenarios in his head that brought him to some very strong climaxes. Something about how buttoned up and proper Fell was, how he was such a rule follower, made Crowley feel frightfully submissive. He wanted Mr. Fell to slap him with a ruler, to tut disapprovingly and scold Crowley for getting close too quickly. He wanted those thick, strong fingers fisted in his hair. He knew he was casting the man in a highly kinky, dominant role in his fantasies, and for all he knew Mr. Fell was not at all that way in bed, but he found he couldn’t help himself.

Then, as the fantasies had grown more involved and ever filthier, he’d realized that he couldn’t keep doing this. The dichotomy between their relationship in real life and the stern, searing hot task master he’d turned his imaginary Aziraphale Fell into in the privacy of his own mind had started to conflict too strongly. It wasn’t healthy to fixate on one’s therapist. It wouldn’t help Crowley to recover and stay sober, and eventually, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to look the man in the eyes any longer without blushing.

And so he’d left off the wanking all together. It wasn’t possible at this point to wank while not thinking of Mr. Fell. So he’d just stopped doing it. Insead, he channeled his excess energy into running. And his 400 dollars worth of plants would most likely provide a healthy alternative outlet for his urges.

His agent had recently managed to find him a modeling deal for Vogue magazine, posing with other older rock stars that the public deemed “still sexy” in a series of tasteful black and white photos. It stoked his ego, and he liked the clothing, simple cotton t-shirts, leather jackets. Very 50s retro, James Dean stuff, and so it had been an appealing and lucrative prospect. He’d flown out to LA for the shoot, glad that it was over the weekend and would not necessitate him missing group. The fact that he missed his small group of new friends, that he thought of them often, (especially Mr. Fell,) while on a photos hoot that should have had him flying high from the praise and attention, made him realize how emotionally attached he’d become to everyone at Lofton Cares House.

Eventually, the lack of wanking grew easier and easier for him, and his focus on his recovery and on enriching his life slid into the foreground. He ran daily, started experimenting with cooking new foods (when before he’d usually just order takeout). He’d started watching documentaries on the telly, and was halfway through one of Tracy’s books, The Bridges of Madison County.

There was indeed a life outside of alcohol and fame. One filled with simple pleasures and friendships.

And then he’d gone and asked Fell to help him at the nursery. It had been a request born from an actual need he’d had, to find a hobby. To do something more substantial than his runs and his attempts at making chicken Vindaloo. He should not have asked for Fell’s help, but the man, after a moment’s nervous hesitation, had agreed. And then they’d spent a wonderful afternoon together. Mr. Fell had known so much about all of the plants, and had taught Crowley a lot, and it was extremely difficult not to gaze a bit longingly at his lips as he spoke, or to keep his mind off of what those well shaped hands could do when they weren’t tenderly fondling a leaf or lifting the bobbing head of a sunflower for Crowley’s inspection.

And now he was back at square one. Pining. Lusting. Longing. He was an idiot.

He briefly entertained telling Mr. Fell, Aziraphale, about his feelings. But then he’d have to leave the group and go somewhere else, and that felt intolerable. On the other, how much more progress could he make if he couldn’t stop fantasizing about his counselor? How much longer would he be able to focus on his recovery if he kept up this ridiculous, pointless pining?

He paced and gritted his teeth and went over and over these worries in his mind until he heard the buzzer go off. The plants were here. He went down and helped the nursery employees unload them and carry them up the stairs to his second storey flat, and then, when the men had been tipped and had gone away, he had this sizable audience of silent green things, staring at him from their various pots. He looked at them, returning their passive attentiveness with concerned scrutiny for a moment before jumping into action. He’d have to put them all someplace wouldn’t he? He went to his laptop and started looking up care and feeding instructions for each plant. Some needed more sunlight, some needed less. Some needed to be watered daily, some weekly and some monthly.

Soon, he’d lost himself in managing his new little greenhouse and realized that his whirring, anguished thoughts had settled. He smiled as he put his snake plant near his front windows. Mr. Fell had been right. He did feel needed and useful.


	7. Chapter 7

A few weeks after his trip with Crowley to the nursery, Michael called Aziraphale into her office. This always amped up Aziraphale’s nervousness. The woman was intimidating. With her perfect hair and perfect manicure and the immaculately tailored suits she wore, in shades of pale gray and cream. Her clothing always made her look like someone high up in government, going to a society luncheon, prepared to smile warmly for photo ops, but her eyes were cold and unforgiving. She raised her perfectly waxed eyebrows at him when he entered and indicated that he should have a seat across from her. 

“We’re in financial trouble,” she said as soon as he’d sat down. She was not one to beat around the bush. 

“I’d gathered as much from the large drops in attendance,” Aziraphale responded, feeling anxiety twist in his gut. Was he getting sacked?

“I was hoping we could brainstorm some ways to increase attendance. Perhaps a series of television commercials. They’d be costly, but they might help? Or a benefit sale of some sort? Art? Jesus, are bake sales still a thing? I’m getting desperate Mr. Fell.” She paused for a moment to pinch the bridge of her nose and let out a tense huff of air. “Or, and this is a last resort, I’ve been offered a position over at Lofton Hospital as an assistant director of Behavioral Health Services. They want you to come with me as my administrative assistant and to serve as a counselor. They know you and I have a lot of experience with drug and alcohol treatment and dual diagnosis. They said they’d be glad to have us.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “But...Lofton Cares House has always-”

  
“Perhaps it's time to admit defeat,” Michael cut in, glancing at him over steepled fingers that she pressed to her mouth. “Our donors have been dropping off like flies, and our costs have been rising. We’re barely making rent and our services are free. We’re a non profit with no one left to help us pay for this stuff.” 

“Surely there’s something we can do Michael. I can think of something.” 

“We lost the Broderick Foundation Account,” Michael said, with a note of finality that made Aziraphale’s blood run cold. “They were donating a hefty amount to us on an annual basis and they’ve just withdrawn their funding earlier this month. If we can’t think of something soon, we’ll go out of business either way.”

“I’ll think of something! I will!” Aziraphale felt desperation claw it’s way up out of his throat in the form of empty promises. He had next to no ideas at the moment on how to save Lofton Cares House, but he had to think of something. “We can’t close down, our clients would have nowhere else to go.”

“And we can’t struggle to keep afloat just for the sake of seven clients who are too stubborn and too antisocial to go to Lofton Hospital for care,” Michael interjected. Her words stung, but Aziraphale knew she was right. 

Tracy, Shadwell, Newt, Ana, Adam, Pepper and Crowley relied heavily on Lofton Cares for the counseling sessions, but other than that, there were probably seven or eight regular clients in the AA and NA groups led by the other counselors who stopped by a couple of times a week. The homeless and other addicts who dropped in for the free meals and pamphlets and the condom distribution, many of whom went where the wind took them, would just drift over to Lofton Hospital were they to go out of business. What was even worse though was that there was no guarantee that if Aziraphale were to accept a position as admin assistant and counselor at the hospital that they’d have him running the same sort of groups at the same times. He might be upgraded (a downgrade in his opinion) to one on one care, or paid therapy sessions with clients who had health insurance, removing him entirely from his ragtag group of misfits that he’d grown to care so much about. 

“I’ll think of something,” he repeated, struggling to maintain his composure in the face of Michael’s icy rationalism. “Give me a couple of weeks and I’ll find a way to get us some money.” 

“Good,” replied Michael with a grim nod of her head. “Because a couple of weeks is all we have.”

______________________________

  
  


That evening, in group, Newt told them all about how he was progressing really well through his computer course, learning some programming and computer repair work, and that he’d actually helped his grandmother set up a website so that she could sell her hand knitted sweaters. Ana and her mother were going for coffee dates to spend time together in a drug and alcohol free environment. And, because Adam’s parents were so impressed with Pepper’s dedication to coming to group counseling sessions, Adam and Pepper had been allowed to start dating again. Of course, they’d been dating the whole time, but Pepper was happy at being officially invited to dinner, and had even managed to refrain from telling Adam’s mother that she was a slave to Patriarchal gender roles when she got up to fetch anyone another glass of soda or cup of juice. 

Shadwell was Shadwell, but Aziraphale noted with some interest that he and Tracy were making eyes at each other more than usual, and he could swear something was going on there. 

Crowley too seemed far happier, more settled. Now, when check in time came around, he talked about his true feelings, his real struggles, his urges to drink, rather than blowing it all off and saying he was fine. He talked about the books he was reading that Tracy perpetually loaned him, (the latest being  _ Watership Down _ ), and regaled them all with stories of his new mini greenhouse and how the plants were faring. Watching him open up and grow warmer and more expressive, less jaded and less ‘cool’ was a joy for Aziraphale. He’d managed to largely ignore his romantic and sexual urges for Crowley and focused all of his attention on being a dedicated counselor for his new client. 

Crowley, for his part, had de-escalated his megawatt charm when it came to Aziraphale. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t make innuendos or give Aziraphale significant looks. He’d reverted to treating Aziraphale as the authority figure he truly was, and Aziraphale was grateful for that. Even if he secretly missed the flirtation.

During this meeting though, Crowley had brought in the copy of Vogue magazine in order to show the group the photo shoot he’d done in LA the previous month, and that was proving challenging for Aziraphale. While the other group members whooped and hooted and made comments on how hot he looked in the photos, Aziraphale nodded and congratulated Crowley politely, keeping things as platonic as possible. 

The photos though.  _ Sweet Lord in Heaven _ , those  _ photos _ . Crowley, long and lanky, wearing a black tank top, with a leather jacket falling off one freckled shoulder. His hair half covering his gorgeous, angular face as he looked smolderingly into the camera lens. His eyes, in black and white photos, looked unearthly, silver and stunning. 

Aziraphale felt himself go hot from his toes to his hairline upon seeing just one photograph. One was honestly all he could handle, and he quickly passed the magazine to Tracy with a polite nod, so she could exclaim loudly over Crowley’s looks. Hopefully, her compliments would distract everyone from the fact that their counselor had gone bright pink. 

The meeting was winding down, and as people usually did, they started to chat about inconsequential things, taking the focus off of the intense recovery talk before saying goodbye. Adam was telling Crowley that he’d introduced Pepper to Dark Angel’s music and that she loved it.

“Oh yeah!” enthused Pepper. “Your band is awesome! I love that one song,  _ MorningStar _ , and  _ Under the Earth.  _ Oh! And  _ Fallen _ ? That song is so intense!”

Crowley grinned happily under the double pronged praise. He turned suddenly and asked Aziraphale, “What sort of music do you listen to Mr. Fell?”

Aziraphale, taken by surprise at the question, and feeling guilt over not once listening to Crowley’s band, wasn’t immediately able to respond. That, and he was still reeling a little from Crowley’s photoshoot. “Oh, I erm… I like classical music,” he replied after taking a flustered moment to think. “Vivaldi, Mozart, Brahms. Different composers and musicians. And what you young people call ‘oldies’. You know, motown and bebop.”

“Bebop?” Crowley looked at him disbelievingly. “I don’t think I’ve heard anyone use that term in forty years.” 

“What can I say? I have old fashioned taste in music,” Aziraphale replied, bristling just a little at the implication that he was out of touch, though he knew he would always hopelessly be ten steps behind the times.

“Don’t you like  _ any _ modern music?” This from Adam, and Aziraphale reminded himself to be grateful that Adam was speaking at all, and not to linger on his unbelievable cheek.

“Well,” Azirpahale gave it some thought. Then he brightened. “Oh yes! I adore the group Journey!”

“ _ Journey _ ?” Crowley had fit as much disdain as possible into two small syllables and Aziraphale frowned at him. “I hate to break it to you, Mr. Fell, but that band is  _ not _ what anyone would consider ‘modern music.’ I think they disbanded before Adam and Pepper were born.”

“Oh! I love Journey!” Pepper enthused. “At least, that one song from Glee. It’s so romantic!”

“Glee?” Aziraphale was momentarily lost.

“Forever Yours!” Pepper said. 

“ _ Faithfully _ ,” Crowley corrected. “It’s called Faithfully, and it’s the biggest pile of sugary pap I’ve ever heard in my life. I hate that song.”

“Oh, it’s actually my favorite,” Aziraphale said softly, unaccountably hurt that Crowley would hate the song that Aziraphale had listened to over and over and over again. He’d worn out the cassette tape while dreaming of Bobby, the boy he fancied from his chemistry class as a 14 year old in 1983. “I think it’s beautiful.”

“Ugh,” Crowley rolled his eyes. “But it’s so  _ sappy _ .”

“Well, some of us simply  _ are _ sappy Crowley, and there’s nothing wrong with that.” Aziraphale, still a bit put out, straightened his waistcoat and looked down at his hands. 

“I love Journey!” Tracy enthused. “Don’t you listen to Crowley, Mr. Fell. Sappiness is important. We could all do with a dose of sappiness now and then.”

“Thank you Tracy,” Aziraphale smiled at her. At least someone in the group would defend his musical taste. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m just taking the piss,” Crowley said, winking at Aziraphale to show him he hadn’t meant any offense. Aziraphale offered him a small grin. 

The group said their goodbyes and everyone left, chatting in small groups as they walked to the door and out. Aziraphale was left with the heaviness of his thoughts once more while he put away the folding chairs and cleaned up the napkins and spent creamer containers from the drinks table. What would he do to keep Lofton Cares afloat? He had to come up with something, and quickly, but the weight of the dread he felt over losing his small community of clients, of abandoning them when they were just starting to show some real progress, it was difficult to think under that sort of pressure. 

It was a nice evening. A warm night in mid springtime, and he walked from the bus stop to his small house. On the way, he passed a convenience store, and though he willed his feet to keep carrying him home, he could not stop them from detouring him across the car park and through the glass doors and over to the magazine stand. 

There it was. This month’s massive copy of Vogue magazine. Thick and glossy and full of images designed to make women and queer people (and everyone really) feel horrible about the state of their faces and bodies. Aziraphale abhorred fashion magazines, for putting out unbelievable beauty standards that were impossible for 95% of the population to live up to. But it wasn’t fashion he was after. He wanted… no, it would be more accurate to say that he  _ needed  _ to see more of Crowley’s photo shoot. 

He carried the ridiculous magazine to the counter and paid an exorbitant amount of money for it, thankful that the cashier put it in a black bag so that no one saw him carrying it home. The very fact that he’d purchased it made him feel desperate and old and unbelievably frumpy. But he was beyond the limitations of his own self esteem at this point. He wanted Crowley with every fiber of his being, and if he couldn’t have the real thing, well he could very well gaze at photos of the man. No one had to know. 

Aziraphale got home and locked the door behind him, before taking off his coat and changing into a pair of pajamas. He made himself a cup of camomile tea in an unhurried fashion, before taking the tea and the magazine to bed with him. He got comfortable, then put the tea on his bedside table to cool and flipped open the magazine. He struggled to ignore the image of the emaciated teenage girl with the sharp cheekbones and gigantic doe eyes on the page opposite the table of contents, and flipped to the middle of the magazine, to Crowley’s photoshoot. It was entitled ‘ _ Back To Basics; Rock Stars That Shaped Our Musical Landscape Strip Down And Get Real. _ ’ Aziraphale impatiently flipped past the photos of ‘ _ Sammy Hagar _ ’ and ‘ _ Dave Grol _ ’, neither of which he’d ever heard of before, until he reached the four page spread for ‘ _ Anthony Crowley. _ ’

His pulse was racing as his eyes hungrily took in the gorgeous, professionally shot images of the man he actively tried not to lust over every day since they’d met. All the photos were taken against a matte gray background. In the first, Crowley was straddling a black chair, gazing steadily into the camera over the top of his sunglasses. He wore what looked like a black jean jacket and black trousers. His arms were draped casually over the chair back, long fingered, elegant hands dangling at the ends of slender wrists. His auburn hair, looking gray in the black and white photo, fell in waves about his face, so that all you really saw were his startling eyes and the pale poetry of his hands in the foreground. 

Aziraphale felt his body light up at the image before his eyes. He grew hot and felt himself stiffening instantly inside his pajama bottoms. How did the man have any right to be this bloody attractive? 

The second photo was the one he’d glimpsed while in group earlier that night, and he swiftly perused it for a moment before flipping the page to look at the third. In this one, they’d had Crowley posed with an electric guitar slung over his shoulder. He wore a black shirt of some slinky material, opened all down the front, and a pair of tight dark jeans with a large silver belt buckle. The guitar rode low across his pelvis, below his exposed navel and the waistband of his trousers, and his hands rested on it casually. He stared into the camera without his shades on, his eyes offering up a piercing challenge to anyone looking at the photo. 

Aziraphale let his eyes slowly drink in the sight of Crowley’s exposed chest and belly. The small patch of chest hair that dusted across his pectoral muscles, fading to a thin trail as it traveled south and disappeared behind that ridiculous belt buckle. One dark nipple was visible, peeking out from the shadow of his open shirt. He imagined kissing his way across Crowley’s chest and then down. Imagined the taste of Crowley’s skin, the noises he’d make as Aziraphale lavished his belly with wet lathes of his tongue before working his belt open and undoing his trousers. 

Before he knew it, Aziraphale had his cock out and in his hand, his other hand struggling to keep the large, cumbersome magazine open, propped against a bent knee, so that he could look at the photo while he touched himself. He felt sparks of shame skittering across his scalp, incongruous against the hot swell of arousal in his belly, but he ignored it. He was beyond controlling himself at this point. He stroked his cock slowly while his eyes swept over the photo, taking his time, letting himself enjoy the thoughts and sensations. Would Crowley’s head fall back when Aziraphale took him into his mouth? What sorts of noises would he make? Aziraphale whimpered and stroked a little faster. 

His gaze settled on Crowley’s eyes in the photograph. They were unearthly. Like the eyes of some jungle cat, or a large snake. There was an animal magnetism about that look, those eyes, staring boldly out at Aziraphale from the page of the magazine. Aziraphale imagined that Crowley was looking at  _ him _ , thinking about  _ him _ during the shoot, and that thought alone brought him instantly closer to his climax. He sped up his strokes, squeezing a bit near the head and pulling down at his base. His breath was coming in ragged gasps as he kept his eyes steady with Crowley’s. What would it look like to see that gaze falter? To see those beautiful, pale eyes tighten, to see those long lashed lids flutter closed with pleasure. 

His gaze drifted down once more to look at Crowley’s long, lean torso, and he saw the dark shadow of what must be a tattoo, a black corner of some intricate ink design across the side of Crowley’s narrow ribcage, and that, for some reason, the intimacy of seeing something Crowley wouldn’t show him in real life, pushed him over the edge. He blasphemed in a harsh whisper as his orgasm flooded up and overwhelmed him. He spilled hot semen over his pumping fist, letting his head fall back against the pillow, letting the magazine fall closed. “ _ Crowley, fuck, _ ” he whispered as he felt the pleasure throb through him. 

Later, after he’d cleaned himself up and put the magazine away, depositing it face down on the shelf under his glass topped coffee table in the sitting room so that no one would see it in his bedroom if he had visitors, he felt ashamed for what he’d done. He felt like a sick old pervert. 

He knew Crowley wouldn’t mind shagging him, had even asked him out, but it was probably more a knee jerk reaction. See someone available and star struck, see if they’ll say yes. There was no way on God’s green earth that Crowley wanted Aziraphale with the pure, unrelenting surge of lust with which Aziraphale wanted Crowley. And what was worse, Aziraphale was realizing belatedly that it was more than lust. He admired Crowley. He adored his snarky sense of humor and his dedication to his new greenhouse. He respected Crowley for working hard to overcome the challenges of his past, and he wanted to know every little thing about him. Aziraphale Fell was smitten, and that was not a good thing. 

He was stuck between very conflicting motives. To hold space for Crowley so that the other man could work on his recovery. To provide support, advice, guidance. This was the pure motive. But then, he wanted to consume Crowley as well. To spend every minute of his day with the stunningly attractive, fascinating man. He wanted to be closer, do more, learn more. He wanted hand holding and warm kisses goodnight and cuddles on the sofa. He wanted endless conversations over cups of coffee. He wanted so many things he couldn’t have. Not without truncating Crowley’s progress, forcing him to go somewhere else for help. It wasn’t fair to either of them to put lust and romantic longing above recovery. And then, what if Crowley only wanted a quick affair and lost interest when the novelty wore off, then Aziraphale would have put his reputation, his career and his heart on the line for nothing.

And dating, for Crowley at least, wasn’t a thing he should be focusing on now anyway. The emotional ups and downs of new relationships could have catastrophic consequences for people in recovery. 

Aziraphale curled up on his side beneath the blankets and hugged himself, trying to force his swirling thoughts to settle so that he could go to sleep. The financial issues that threatened to close Lofton Cares were also weighing heavily on his mind. Lots of question marks about what would happen over the course of the next two weeks. Eventually, at probably three in the morning, Aziraphale drifted off into a fitful sleep. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next couple of chapters are pretty angsty, but I'll make it all better soon!

A week went by and Aziraphale was no closer to finding a way to increase funding for Lofton Cares House. He’d done hours of research into grants and loans and none of it applied to their situation. It turns out you needed a minimum number of clients to receive the sorts of funding a facility like Lofton Cares House required to stay afloat, and with only maybe 15 clients a week, and none of them receiving medications or staying in a residential capacity, there just wasn’t the support for facilities that provided outpatient, non-pharmacotherapy related services. 

He hadn’t said anything to the group, but he knew that tonight was the night. It had been six days since Michael had given him the news, and he couldn’t spring it on them at the last minute. He’d made a slapdash decision before the first group members showed up, that he would continue to run the therapy sessions out of his home. He could think of no other thing to do. It would be awkward and a tad unprofessional, but he couldn’t imagine pulling Lofton Cares out from under his little flock of therapy clients without providing them with an alternative. 

Soon, everyone had arrived and were chatting amiably, like they always did in the last final moments before group started. Aziraphale cleared his throat and gathered up his courage. One by one, Ana, Tracy, Shadwell, then Adam and Pepper, Newt and Crowley fell silent and turned their attention to him. They could tell something was wrong. Aziraphale always started the group the same way, twice a week, every week, and here he was, looking miserable, twisting his hands together in his lap, rather than starting out with his usual, cheerful welcome. 

“I have some unfortunate news,” he said, wishing he could be anywhere but here. “It’s been brought to my attention by upper management that Lofton Cares House has lost a lot of funding over the past few years. We have been unable to compete with Lofton Hospital’s new Behavioral Health Services department, and lots of people have withdrawn their funding, and so, if we don’t find an alternate way to pay the bills, Lofton Cares House will have to close down within the next week.” 

His announcement was at first met with stunned silence. Then Tracy’s hand flew to her mouth, plastic bracelets clacking as she let out a soft noise of dismay. Ana scowled and Crowley stared at him impassively, his face unreadable.

“What do you mean close down?” Shadwell spoke up, sounding as angry as Ana looked. “Do you mean the whole place? Just  _ shutting down _ ?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, feeling sick to his stomach. “Unfortunately, yes. That is what I mean. But, I’ve decided that I’d like to continue seeing all of you, at my place, if you like. It won’t exactly be a spacious location, but I’d be happy to-”

“This is bullshit!” Pepper, always the outspoken one, exploded. “Lofton Hospital is a soulless, capitalist corporation that churns people in and out like...like...automatons! We can’t let them win!”

“We can’t impose on you Mr. Fell,” Tracy said, sounding as if she might cry. “You’re too kind. We’ll just… I don’t know, muddle through on our own.” 

“Easy for you to say!” Shadwell turned on her, frowning. “You’ve got family and friends. I’ve got no one. Not a blessed soul!” He folded his arms over his chest, looking embarrassed over his outburst but still angry. 

Aziraphale was wringing his hands, dismayed. This was going even worse than he’d imagined. Anathema then burst into tears and covered her face with her hands. “Th-this is m-my only real family outside of my mom!” she exclaimed wetly through her interlaced fingers. Newt bravely put an arm around her shoulders to comfort her and looked dejectedly down at the ground. Crowley had still not said a word. 

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do, so he simply doubled down. “As I’ve said, I would be happy to keep seeing you at my house, as long as you’d like. It would have to be in a sort of unofficial capacity, and we’ll have to get creative with making some space in my sitting room, but I think it could work.”

“We can’t take up your life twice a week, Mr. Fell,” Adam said softly. “What happens when you find another job? Or when you have things you need to do, and you can’t see us?”

Aziraphale knew they were right, but he didn’t know what else to say. He felt his small community of people who relied on him fracturing and grieving and he was utterly lost as to how to fix it.

Suddenly, and without a word, Crowley stood up, mumbled a quick apology and walked out of the room. Aziraphale felt he should get up and follow him, ask him if he were alright, where he was going. He felt his muscles twitch with the urge to propel him out of his chair, but he stayed where he was. He couldn’t go running off after Crowley and leave everyone else here to deal with the news. And he couldn’t risk his actions betraying his inner feelings. 

He turned back to his sad group of therapy clients with a grim expression. “Look, I am not happy about this either,” he said, striving for comforting words and falling short. “I love this job. I love this company. I love working with all of you. But sometimes, well, sometimes a thing just isn’t meant to last. The least I can do is work with each one of you to help you find alternate groups to attend. There are SMART Recovery, AA and NA meetings that meet at Lofton Hospital, as well as at the community center down in Trenton. I am almost certain you’ll find a new group soon.”

“We don’t want a new group,” said Ana, raising tear stained eyes to look at Aziraphale. “We want you Mr. Fell. We want to stay here at Lofton Cares.”

“I know dear, I know. I want to stay here too,” Aziraphale replied, feeling miserable. “I think we should spend the rest of the group talking about next steps and working together to find places for everyone to go.”

Ana nodded, thankfully accepting his offer of help and everyone else grudgingly agreed. Tracy laid a consoling hand on Shadwell’s shoulder and said something to him in sotto voce that made his expression smooth from angry confusion to a solemn sort of acceptance. They spent the rest of the meeting going over nearby therapy groups and 12 Step programs and talking about options. They unanimously decided that going to meetings together at Lofton Hospital with the chance of seeing Aziraphale was better than scattering to the winds, even though Pepper looked miserable at this concept. Aziraphale silently pitied whomever their new drug counselor might be. They were a rowdy and irreverent group, and he’d grown used to handling them, working with them. Whomever took over for him would have their mettle tested for sure.

Crowley did not return, and Aziraphale tried to smother the clench of worry caused by the man’s continued absence so that he could focus on helping his small brood of displaced clients find new places to go. As the group wound down, everyone said their goodbyes. Everyone also gave Aziraphale a hug and some kind words. No one mentioned how this might be one of the last times they met at Lofton Cares. Shadwell didn’t hug him, but did hold out his hand and give Aziraphale’s a firm shake, along with a sharp pat on the shoulder and a muttered, “Thanks Mr. Fell.” 

They filed out, leaving Aziraphale feeling emptier than he probably ever had. He cleaned up with a heavy heart and turned out the lights, casting a long look at the silent, empty room where he’d held his therapy meetings, twice weekly, every week without fail for the last four years. With a sigh, he let the door swing shut and locked it.


	9. Chapter 9

Upon arriving home, Aziraphale felt distracted, skittish, unable to focus. He tried several times to settle in with a book, but his eyes just kept sweeping blindly over the page. He kept seeing Ana’s tearstained face and Newt’s dejected expression and hearing Shadwell say he had no friends outside of the group. His nightmare, of Lofton Cares House closing down for good was finally coming to pass, and he felt frightfully unprepared to deal with it. He prayed that no one relapsed because of this sad and sudden change in events, and contemplated calling everyone that evening to check in on them. 

A knock at the door jolted him from his silent worries. No one ever came to visit him unannounced, so he turned the knob and pulled the door open with no small amount of curiosity and a touch of apprehension. 

Crowley stood on his doorstep, looking lost and pensive. “Hey Mr. Fell,” he said. “Can I come in? I wanted to talk.”

Aziraphale swiftly swung the door open and stepped back, allowing Crowley entry. “Crowley! Yes, of course, of course. Please do come in. Can I get you some coffee, some tea?”

Crowley sauntered his way into Aziraphale’s sitting room, looking around him with curiosity, sweeping his eyes over the stacks and shelves of books that lined nearly every surface. “No thanks Mr. Fell. I won’t stay long. Your house is very cozy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many books in one place before, outside of a library.”

“Oh, yes, well, I do like my books,” Aziraphale replied lamely. “I once entertained the dream of owning my own book shop. Somewhere like Soho.” His heart, he noted with some dismay, had begun pounding the moment he’d seen Crowley outside his door. Crowley was wearing a faded black t-shirt, his ever present leather jacket and a pair of faded blue jeans with rips at both knees. He wasn’t wearing his shades, as it was night time, and his eyes flashed topaz in the yellow light spilling from Aziraphale’s chairside lamp. He looked astoundingly attractive, but, Aziraphale reminded himself, he’d probably look attractive covered in mud and dressed in a potato sack. 

After Crowley had looked around to his heart’s content, he settled his long fingered hands on his hips and took a deep breath. “I uh… I came here to get some things off my chest,” he said. 

Aziraphale felt his heart lurch inside his chest. “Oh?” He asked, dismayed to realize how tremulous and hopeful that one syllable sounded coming out of his mouth. “Well, I’d be happy to listen to whatever you feel you need to say.” 

Crowley nodded, seeming to gather his courage. “First off, I’m really disappointed to hear the news about Lofton Cares,” he said. “I really love that place, and that whole gang. It’s meant a lot to me to have your group meetings twice a week. And so, I’d like to find some way to help out financially.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Thank you so much, but It’s no use Crowley. I know you have money, but keeping Lofton Cares afloat would take more than a one time donation. You could very well donate your entire fortune and the place would still go back under again in a couple of years.”

Crowley grinned a mischievous grin. “Like I said, I’d like to help out. We can talk details about that later.”

Aziraphale nodded, flattered and pleased that he wanted to offer his help, even if it would ultimately not do much good. 

“But that’s not all I came here to say,” he continued. “I also wanted to tell you that I probably won’t be going over to Lofton Hospital for the group meetings there, and I won’t be coming back to your group again either.”

Aziraphale’s heart, which had moments ago been pounding away inside his chest, felt as if it had stopped working all together. “But Crowley-”

Crowley cut him off. “It’s nothing personal… well… It  _ is _ personal, but it has nothing to do with the quality of your group. I loved it there. I adore the other group members. You’ve  _ all _ helped me so much. It’s not that I don’t want to come back.” 

“Then why leave?” Aziraphale hated the desperation in his voice. But he hated the idea of Crowley striking out on his own, now that he’d finally started showing so much progress, even more. 

“I have to leave, because the group, even one over at Lofton Hospital, well it would be connected to you wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale responded warily. “I’d be a counselor at Lofton Hospital as well, should I choose to accept their position.” 

“Yeah, well, I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to be in drug counseling if you’re involved. Not any longer,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale frowned in confusion. 

“What are you trying to say Crowley?” His heart had resumed it’s previous unrelenting thud, so loudly that he was certain Crowley must hear it, hammering away inside his chest. 

“I’m trying to say that I’ve developed some… how shall I put this? Some unprofessional feelings toward you.” Crowley said, and at first Aziraphale’s brain refused to understand. 

“Oh, do you mean that little outing to the nursery? I knew that was a bad idea. And while I value your friendship Crowley, I really do think that your continued recovery is more important than making a new friend-”

“I’m not talking about friendship,” Crowley said insistently, his voice going soft and serious. “Or, well, not  _ only _ friendship, to be clear.

Aziraphale swallowed thickly. “Crowley, I don’t think I understand...” 

“I want you,” Crowley said, just like that. “I want you and I think you want me too, and that’s not appropriate to our current situation. So I’m going to change our current situation by leaving it.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried to rally his thoughts, to say something rational, but his heart was now throwing itself against his rib cage as if it desired to escape his body, and he’d gone hot all over.  _ I want you, and I think you want me too. _ Crowley’s words were still echoing in the air of his sitting room. He thought he might black out. 

“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” Crowley said. “And it’s for the best if I strike out on my own.” 

“I, Crowley I, I must tell you that I think dropping one of only a few high quality drug therapy options available to you at this time would be catastrophic to your eventual recovery. I-”

“Do  _ you _ ?” Crowley asked him, cutting him off again. It was difficult for Aziraphale to build up momentum to say what his scattered brain wanted to say if Crowley kept side swiping him like this. He felt the earth shift under his feet and his mouth go dry. 

“Do I what?”

Crowley smirked at him, raising one copper eyebrow and giving Aziraphale a look of disbelief. “Do you want me too?” He asked, point blank. And though he had a cocky look on his face, Aziraphale could sense nervous tension coming off him in waves. 

Aziraphale panicked. What if Crowley was only referring to sexual desire? That’s what trendsetting rock stars like him did, didn’t they? What if he saw Aziraphale as a fling. A fun side jaunt. A conquest. So that he could prove to himself that he was still desirable. Seduce his drug counselor. Of course. If he could do that, then he’d feel accomplished wouldn’t he? 

“I, I,” he stammered, caught between the urge to deny ever having desired Crowley and the urge to fling himself into the other man’s arms and promise eternal devotion. He’d never been wanted by someone like Crowley before. 

Or rather...he now recalled with a sickening twist to his gut...he  _ had _ . 

_ Gabriel _ , tall and handsome and so well put together. Gabriel, who could have any man he wanted, had chosen Aziraphale, then dropped him the minute his shine had worn off. 

“I...Crowley, that would be highly unprofessional of me to comment on at this point in time,” Azirpahale said. 

He watched as Crowley’s face fell, watched the man’s eyes drop from Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale had ruined it. Had blown his chance to finally get the thing he’d been wanting so badly for so long. He was crushed by a sudden wave of disappointment. Disappointment in himself for not being lovable enough for Crowley to truly want to be with him, for not having the courage to simply own up to his feelings and take whatever Crowley could give him, that he at first did not notice the change in Crowley’s expression. 

Instead of continuing to show shades of disappointment, Crowley’s eyes had fixed themselves on a point down and to the left of Aziraphale. His gaze had that attentive, hyper focused quality of someone who’d just seen something incredibly interesting. A snake spotting a small rodent in the grass. A hawk preparing to dive. Aziraphale, belatedly picking up on Crowley’s body language, followed his gaze down and saw that Crowley was looking at Aziraphale’s glass topped coffee table. And not just at the table. There, lying face down, but likely still very recognizable to Crowley, was the Vogue magazine. Aziraphale cursed silently at himself for not throwing the thing away. Or at least putting it somewhere out of sight. But he’d been so pulled apart by his orgasm the other night, that he’d been loose and distracted and had only thought to put the thing where the other magazines in his house always ended up. On the shelf beneath his glass topped coffee table. 

Their eyes shifted up from the magazine at the same moment, met and held. Aziraphale felt his mouth fall open, felt the words of a thousand excuses struggling to make their way past his lips 

_ I always read Vogue _

_ I bought that before I knew you were in it _

_ Ana gave me a copy as a joke _

He couldn’t force himself to say anything though, as his eyes stayed locked with Crowley’s and the moment stretched out, second by heart pounding, agonizing second. He’d been found out. Crowley knew now that Aziraphale was a mess over him and he’d smirk and swagger and feel triumphant. He’d gotten the old fashioned, plump, middle aged man who ran his therapy groups to fall head over heels for him. He’d won. 

To his surprise though, Crowley didn’t look triumphant, or smug. He looked shocked. His amber eyes had gone wide and dark. His mouth had fallen open and Aziraphale thought he could see the man tremble slightly. “ _ Aziraphale _ ,” he said in a soft whisper. He’d never said Aziraphale’s first name before, and  _ dear God _ but he loved how it sounded. 

For a split second longer, they maintained the tableau of silent tension, and then Crowley swiftly closed the distance between them. They were kissing before Aziraphale even realized the action had begun. One moment, he was panicking, staring at Crowley and wishing he could run away and hide. The next, Crowley was in his arms, warm and soft and making urgent noises, and their lips were pressed together. 

“Mmmm!” Aziraphale let out a noise of his own and kissed Crowley back. His head was spinning with the smell of Crowley’s skin and hair and the taste of his soft lips, just now opening to tease at Aziraphale’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. The kiss deepened and Aziraphale lost complete control of his rational mind. Crowley backed them both against a nearby bookshelf and pressed his long body against Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s narrow hips and tried to pull him even closer. All was a rush of heat and sensation, and the kiss grew hungry and wet and Aziraphale did not know who he was anymore. He didn’t care about anything other than the hot feel of Crowley’s soft lips and agile tongue and the sound of Crowley's sweet voice, making high pitched, needy little noises as Aziraphale held him tight. 

Crowley transferred his astoundingly talented mouth from Aziraphale’s lips to his jawline, and then Aziraphale felt his nimble fingers working at his bow tie. “You’ve no clue how long I’ve fantasized about taking this thing off you,” he heard Crowley murmur against his neck. 

Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, his own hands had gone on autopilot and had found the hem of Crowley’s t-shirt, hungrily working their way underneath to stroke at the insanely soft skin of Crowley’s flat belly and narrow sides. Crowley gasped and momentarily lost his focus at the feel of Aziraphale’s hands on him and Aziraphale was deeply pleased that he had the power to make Crowley react like that. To make him rest his forehead against Aziraphale’s cheek and gasp for air as Aziraphale explored Crowley’s torso with desperate strokes of his fingers. 

“Fuck,” Crowley groaned. “Fuck, Aziraphale, you don't know what I’ve been thinking. How long I’ve been wanting you. You have no idea.” 

“I, I think I have some idea,” Aziraphale managed to get out, before Crowley finally worked his bow tie loose and unbuttoned the top of Aziraphale’s shirt. He began sucking at Aziraphale’s neck, and then speaking became exponentially more difficult to accomplish. All Aziraphale could do was gasp. His eyes, now open, strayed to a large book on the shelf, visible beyond the top of Crowley’s head, and settled on his copy of  _ Boundaries in Counselling and Psychotherapy _ by Marian Davies. 

All at once, the gravity of what they were doing hit him with a sickening thud of realization. 

“Crowley, Crowley wait,” He said, feeling his desire swiftly and regretfully fading under an onslaught of guilt. To his credit, Crowley immediately stopped his thorough perusal of Aziraphale’s neck and pulled back, flushed and out of breath, and looking heartbreakingly gorgeous. 

“Yeah? What is it? Are you OK? Did I do something wrong?” Aziraphale saw Crowley’s lovely eyes clouding with anxiety and he hated himself for it. 

“No, no my dear, you’ve done nothing wrong at all. Not in the slightest.” He gently pushed Crowley away and straightened his waistcoat, being that it had grown frightfully rucked up and out of place during their frantic snog session. He tried to calm his pounding heartbeat and pull himself together. “You are not at fault here. It’s me who’s done something wrong.” 

“Aziraphale, no, you didn’t-”

Aziraphale silenced him with a motion of his hand before he could continue. “I may not be your counselor for very much longer, but that is currently my role in your life, and I’ve crossed a boundary,” he said. 

Crowley stared at him as if he’d just sprouted wings. “But I quit. I told you that. I am no longer going to group and I’ll seek any additional counseling on my own. It has nothing to do with you!” Crowley’s voice had gone up an octave, growing a little wavery with anxiety and Aziraphale felt horrible to have made him suffer like this. 

“You say that now, but it isn’t my job to take you at your word, all for the sake of a quick shag. Crowley, your recovery is worth far more than a single night with me. You have to see that don’t you?”

He knew he was getting out ahead of his own rejection. Suggesting that this was a one time thing so that Crowley didn’t have to say it later. Showing himself to the door as it were. It was painful, but it would be far more painful tomorrow, when Aziraphale would wake up alone, feeling used and like he’d used one of his clients simultaneously. 

“I see,” Crowley’s face fell and he backed away, taking his delicious warmth and sweet smell with him. Aziraphale felt his stomach curdle at the sight of Crowley’s closed off, cold expression. 

“I can’t sacrifice my professional integrity no matter how much I want to have sex with you,” he added, which he knew wouldn’t help, but at this point, he had nothing left but his professional integrity to cling to. 

“No, no, I understand. I get it. No need to explain,” Crowley backed away further and looked around himself, seeming unaware of what to do next. Aziraphale watched in agony, wanting nothing more than to pull him back into a warm embrace, but feeling like a horrible person for wanting it. “I’ll just go home shall I?” He said, unable to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

“It’s for the best Crowley, it really is. Things like this, flings and such, they aren’t good for recovering addicts. You’ll thank me later. You truly will.” 

“Silly me,” Crowley said, his voice full of disappointment and disdain. “I thought this could be good for  _ both of us _ .” And then without another word, he turned and left. 

Aziraphale ran to the door, reaching out, Crowley’s name on his lips, but stopped himself as he watched Crowley’s black clad form receding into the darkness at the bottom of his short driveway. The hand he'd raised falling uselessly at his side as he shut the door with a soft click. The damage was done. He’d pushed Crowley away. He had to tell himself it was for the best. What else could he do? Start up some torrid affair? Damage his reputation, all for the chance that a stunning, world recognized former rock star would become his boyfriend? Watch movies on the couch and share popcorn with him? Celebrate Valentine’s day with chocolates and roses? Who was he fooling?

He heard Crowley’s sports car engine flare to life out on the street and heard the squeal of tires as he sped off into the night. Aziraphale let out a defeated sigh and went to make himself a cup of tea. As he stood, waiting for the kettle to boil, and trying to think of what to make for supper, he realized belatedly that he had started to cry.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of urges to use alcohol and some internalized homophobia in this chapter.

Crowley spent quite a bit of time wallowing in self pity. It felt good. It felt satisfying to bemoan his situation and cry a little, (angry tears that he scrubbed away from his eyes with the heel of his hand). And truth be told, he’d needed a good pity party. He’d been doing really well with recovery. Feeling strong and self-reliant and feeling his self esteem rising, but for the right reasons this time. Because of his accomplishments and his progress, not because he’d made a lot of money or had been hailed by some local magazine or television show as “still sexy.”. 

He supposed this was the universe’s cue to take him down a peg. It always happened this way. He’d think he’d reached a solid plateau in life, and then, a partner would leave him, a record deal would fall through, he’d read an article in a gossip mag that made him out to sound like a spoilt prat (though to be fair, for a long while, he had been). Good things had a way of slipping through his fingers at just the worst moments.

Aziraphale was a good thing. Aziraphale had told him he couldn’t be with Crowley because Crowley was broken and not fixed enough yet to be in a relationship. Aziraphale had pushed him away, pulled his soft lips from Crowley’s and dismissed him. Because Crowley was unstable, untrustworthy,  _ in recovery _ . Jesus Christ but Crowley was tired of that phrase.  _ In recovery, _ along with  _ urges to use _ , and  _ codependency _ being tossed at him left and right by Mr. Fell, by books and pamphlets and other group members. He was tired of being so  _ responsible _ all the time. He missed the days when he’d just throw a mic stand through a hotel window, or drink too much and sleep the day away while his agent handled all the smoothing over of his drunken actions to the press. 

He knew that the only reason he was sober today was because the world was not at all forgiving of his antics, now that he’d surpassed the peak of his fame and was gently coasting down the other side into obscurity.

When fame leaves you, you can’t rely on it to cushion the blow any longer. When fame leaves you, when people forget you, they aren’t nearly as invested in helping you get out of scrapes you bloody well got yourself into. Crowley had learned this lesson the hard way.

Still...even if he  _ was _ only sober today because he lacked a safety net for his drunken shenanigans, he was grateful for every day that he spent without drinking. Today had been rough. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t white-knuckled it a bit when he’d first returned from Aziraphale’s ( _ Mr. Fell’s, _ must call him Mr. Fell now). Luckily, he had no alcohol in the flat, and going down to a local bar, or driving to the liquor store, a fifteen minute ride, provided the buffer he needed to ride out the urge. 

He’d learned that the more barriers (emotional, physical, financial) you put in the way between yourself and your drug of choice, the harder it would be to use, and this lesson had proven invaluable. 

Instead of drinking, he paced his sitting room floor. He chewed his lip. He ran his hands through his hair. He cursed at himself. He cursed at whatever stuffy, strictly religious bullshit Aziraphale had been fed that made him able to turn down what had promised to be an astoundingly hot shag and a deeply beautiful relationship, all for the sake of  _ doing what’s right. _

He knew Aziraphale had a point, about him being a recent client. He knew Aziraphale felt that continuing at Lofton Cares, or at Lofton Hospital would be beneficial to Crowley’s recovery. What Aziraphale  _ didn’t  _ realize however, was that Crowley had ceased to see Aziraphale as his counselor. It wouldn’t do any good to stay on in a platonic capacity and have Aziraphale involved in his recovery any longer. Crowley was in love, and you can’t be in love with the person tasked with helping you recover from addiction. 

_ In love? _ His rational brain scolded him for such wild and romantic thoughts.  _ Don’t you mean ‘codependently attracted’? Don’t you mean ‘attached’? _

But when Crowley looked at his feelings rationally, he didn’t feel any sort of codependence. He adored Aziraphale for who he was. For his silly bow tie, his ancient waistcoat that looked like something from a Dickensian play. He loved Aziraphale’s little house packed full of books, and his apparent inability to use one, single foul word. He loved Aziraphale’s integrity, his honesty, his jolly sense of humor and his genuine affection for other people. The man was an angel, and Crowley knew it wasn’t just the glamor of love or lust that made him see Aziraphale that way. It was simply who Aziraphale was.

_ You don’t deserve him _ . The thought skittered unpleasantly across the surface of his mind, and he couldn’t help but entertain it. Crowley knew that his fear of coming out was still firmly in place. He’d challenged himself with thoughts of being Fell’s official partner. Of going out with the man to restaurants and holding hands and risking photos being taken of him. He’d imagined the backlash, thousands of dedicated fans realizing that their dream heartthrob from primary school was gay. Then he imagined how his coming out wouldn’t even cause much of a stir any longer, because Crowley wasn’t causing much of a stir anymore either, and society was far more accepting of queer people these days wasn’t it? Regardless. It was all a moot point now. Aziraphale wouldn’t give him a chance to face his fears and come out to the public, because Aziraphale didn’t want him anyway.

_ Mr. Fell! _ His brain reminded him (very belatedly). He had to get used to the fact that a relationship with  _ Mr. Fell _ was not in the cards. No matter how much Crowley longed to kiss Fell again, or wrap his fingers in that white-blond cotton candy hair of his, ( _ Jesus _ , it looked so soft, why hadn’t Crowley touched it when he’d had the chance?) that he couldn’t go there again. He couldn’t call Mr. Fell by his long, religious, frightfully sexy first name. He couldn’t wrap himself around Fell in the morning and kiss the warm, sweet smelling back of his neck. All the things that Crowley had fantasized about doing with Aziraphale Fell for several weeks now were no longer possibilities.

He saw himself knocking back a succession of whiskey shots in his mind's eye to deal with the pain of the loss he was feeling and decided to go for a run instead. He pulled on his tracksuit bottoms, an old jumper and his running shoes and resolved to run himself ragged. To burn up any and all energy he had left that could be used up in useless pining for an unrequited love. 

It was late, around 10pm, but it was a safe, wealthy neighborhood. Late night joggers were a common thing around these parts as corporate CEOs and commuters went for their daily runs after the kids had been put to bed and the dinner dishes had been loaded into their dishwashers. Crowley felt the steady rhythm of his own feet, scraping against the pavement, lull him into a calmer place. Within five minutes, air was rushing in and out of his lungs, and his muscles had started to truly warm up. He ran toward the local park, which had wide, well lit jogging paths through the firefly illuminated darkness. 

As he ran, he let his thoughts flow through his mind in an aimless stream. He found that the linear nature of running helped his inner dialogue fall in line along with his footsteps, and he simply let the flow wend its way through his mind and away.

He thought often of Fell as he ran along the asphalt path in the park, feeling the warm night breeze, still carrying a little of winter’s chill along with it, caress his hair and face. He thought also of Lofton Cares House, and how he’d told Az- Mr. Fell that he’d come up with a way to get them some money. He’d meant it. And, he had what he hoped was a foolproof plan to get them not only more money, but scads more clients. It would take a little time, and he’d have to call in a lot of favors from his old friends. Particularly from Beeze, and maybe from their old drummer, Hastur. But, if he asked the right people, and made his case, he was almost certain he could pull it off. 

His grief over his rejection slowly began to recede as he felt sweat begin dripping down his sides and back, as his lungs began to burn a little with the intensity of his run. What took the grief’s place was a plan. A good plan. One he was almost certain he could pull off. He ran and ran until he felt as if his knees would come apart and his lungs would collapse, and then he slowed to a walk and turned back in the direction of his flat, gasping for air, his skin superheated and slick with sweat. He felt worn out and empty, but in the middle of the emptiness was a spark of hope. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay between chapters! I was/have been involved in a couple of JSAMN fic exchanges and the time got away from me. I'm tossing up this short chapter and getting to work on the next one now! 
> 
> cw: mentions of drinking and tough family situations, some verbal abuse.
> 
> This was not beta read.

Aziraphale is ten years old. He’s in the sitting room, sprawled across the threadbare carpet with a lumpy pillow propped under his chin, gazing up at the black and white vision that is Gregory Peck’s face in To Kill A Mockingbird. He feels his heart flutter inside his chest as Gregory lifts one perfectly shaped, raven dark eyebrow and smirks with only one side of his mouth. He wants to marry Gregory Peck so that they can kiss all the time and so he can go to big Hollywood premieres on Gregory’s arm while they both wear tuxedos. 

In the kitchen, his mother is talking to his aunt on the telephone. Aziraphale knows it’s only a matter of time before she notices what he’s doing and comes after him with scorching criticism and talk of sinfulness and slothfulness, but for the moment, she’s distracted, and he can get away with watching just a little more. Gregory Peck, or rather Atticus Finch, is being sweet and kind to his daughter, Scout, played by Mary Badham. Aziraphale wonders what it would be like to have a father that was kind, a mother who really understood him. He sighs dramatically. 

“Aziraphale!” he hears his mother’s sharp voice from the kitchen and flinches. “Stop watching that horrible television and go outside and get some exercise! You’re as fat as a Christmas goose and that nonsense will rot your brain!”

Aziraphale grudgingly clambers up off the floor and switches off their small television. He hears his mother go back to speaking to his aunt, her voice picking up that tone of disappointment and disapproval it often has when she speaks of her youngest son. “I don’t know what is wrong with that boy. He won’t play sports, he won’t make friends. He just stares at that television all day. Lazy. That’s his problem. I pray to the Lord that he finds a purpose in life, rather than mooning about over film stars.” 

Aziraphale goes outside, but there’s not much to do. He grabs a stick and digs about in the dirt of their small garden with it, watching the clothes flap on the line, feeling blue. It’s a Saturday, so at least he doesn’t have to go to school, or church. But he is often lonely. His father will be home soon, and then the drinking will start, and he isn’t looking forward to that. 

For a moment, he loses himself in a fantasy involving a glossy black car pulling up in front of the house. Gregory Peck is inside, and a white liveried chauffeur gets out of the driver’s seat and walks around to open the back door. Gregory steps out, looking oh so dapper in a sharp suit, and he asks Aziraphale to run away with him.

Instead, his father’s small, battered car pulls up on the street outside, letting out a rattle and a sigh as he parks and turns the ignition off. Aziraphale goes back to digging in the dirt with his stick, only now, his stomach is in knots. 

__________________

Crowley is 10 years old. He is lying on the floor of his parent’s sitting room, chin propped on his hands, watching Elvis Presley on the television. Elvis struts his stuff in a white sequined bodysuit, the material hugging his legs and hips in a way that Crowley is just starting to recognize as appealing to him on a secret, shameful level. He can hide it. The reasons he likes watching Elvis thrust and strut his way across the screen. And anyway, his mother doesn’t care. She’s well on her way to getting pissed. Nursing a gin on ice in the kitchen. The clink of the ice cubes jostling together as she raises the glass for yet another sip, causes a shiver of apprehension to tickle its way across Crowley’s nerve endings. He hates it when his mother drinks. And she drinks all the time.

She works full time as a check out girl down at the local market, and Crowley has grown accustomed to helping his little sister get ready for school, making meals, cleaning house. His mother works the afternoon and evening shift. Comes home late. Gets drunk. Passes out and doesn’t wake up until 1pm every day. This makes Crowley the most responsible person in the house. His sister, Dagon is only seven. There’s still a lot she can’t do for herself. 

“Anthony J Crowley! Stop staring at the telly and go and fetch your good for nothing father!” His mother’s harsh voice, already slurred with gin consumption, breaks through Crowley’s fantasies of kissing Elvis and shatters his brief moment of quasi-calm. 

He clambers up off the floor and reluctantly heads down to the local pub to fetch his father. His father is a sad, sullen man. He has no strength left to fight the weight of the world that seems continually to press down upon his shoulders. He drinks his days away when he’s not at his part time job as an auto mechanic. Crowley is by now very used to going to fetch him. The bartenders and waitresses all know him by name, and they pat him on the head and tell him he’s a good and handsome boy. It’s actually not a bad task all told. Only the look upon his father’s face, lax with whiskey, full of remorse ruins it. 

Crowley dreams of one day being on a stage like Elvis. Like Pete Townsend. Like Mick Jagger. Dressing in posh clothes and dancing and singing in front of thousands of screaming fans. Everyone wanting him. Everyone loving him. People would line up just to please him. He wouldn’t have to make dinner or help his little sister do her homework, or listen to his parents scream at one another every time they were in the same room. He’d be untouchable. Popular. Loved. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for hanging in there with me! I keep adding chapters and pulling the last chapter number goal post out further and further. Lets see if 15 is the magic number!
> 
> I split the chapters up a bit awkwardly because I need a certain character's perspective for a certain scene, but just bear with me. Next one should be up later tonight or early tomorrow. I WILL FINISH THIS FIC SOON

Aziraphale was woken up by the buzz of his mobile phone on his bedside table. He reached blindly for it and peered blearily at the screen. It was Michael. He wanted to punt the call to voicemail and go back to sleep, but he knew that ignoring Michael was never a good idea. She’d somehow  _ know _ that he’d avoided the call. The woman was psychic when it came to ditched responsibilities. 

He thumbed the green answer button and brought the mobile to his ear. “Good morning Michael,” he said in his most awake sounding voice. 

“Aziraphale! You need to get to the office as soon as possible. I’ve got good news! Don’t want to talk about it over the phone. How soon can you be here?” It was his day off, but the urgency and, even more than that, the happiness in her voice, not a usual sound for Michael, made him perk up and take notice. 

“Um, perhaps an hour, hour and a half?” he said. He’d have to shower and shave, dress, catch an Uber (no point waiting for a bus if time was of the essence). 

“Great! See you then!” the line clicked off, and Aziraphale was left holding his mobile and frowning in confusion. Well, at least it was good news. He pulled himself out of bed, feeling old and tired and wishing he could simply go back to sleep. 

After showering and getting dressed, he stepped outside to await the Uber. He thought of Crowley while he waited, which was not at all unusual, as he’d been thinking of Crowley off and on for a solid week now. They hadn’t seen one another, hadn’t texted or called. He had immediately regretted rejecting Crowley that day at his house. He’d played that kiss over and over again through his mind, recalling the incredible pleasure of holding Crowley in his arms, of kissing his mouth, touching his body. Those images had taken center stage in a couple of guilty sad-wanks over the past week, and afterward, Aziraphale always felt worse. 

What if Crowley had wanted something more serious than a fling? What if the look in his eyes, so sad and hurt, had been disappointment over a lost possibility for a relationship of depth and longevity? His self esteem didn’t believe this could be possible, and so he’d pushed the idea away. Soon, Crowley would move on to his next interest. He’d leave sad, frumpy Aziraphale behind and head to New York City or back to London, find some shiny new bloke with perfect, young skin and a narrow waist, and forget all about his time at Lofton Cares…. Forget all about Aziraphale. 

The Uber pulled up and Aziraphale got inside, greeted the driver and gave her the address to Lofton Cares House. It was a quick ride, and soon, they were pulling up at the facility. Aziraphale wished the driver a good day and exited the car, tugged his waistcoat into place and straightened his bow tie before entering. Michael had said it was good news, so he shouldn’t feel this apprehension in the pit of his stomach. 

He knocked on Michael’s door and was immediately ushered in. “Hello!” She said, smiling at him from her seat behind her desk. He sat himself opposite her and tried not to fidget from nervousness. She always made him nervous, she was just that sort, and the fact that she was smiling made the whole thing a bit surreal. Michael wasn’t a big smiler. “I’m sorry to call you in on your day off, but this was just too good to share over the phone,” she said. 

Aziraphale waved off her concerns with a polite hand. “No trouble. What’s happened?” he asked, finding himself curious despite his nerves. 

“Well, looks like one of your clients took it upon themselves to offer us financial help.”

“Did they?” Aziraphale was surprised indeed. None of his clients had any money to speak of… except for Crowley of course. 

As if reading his mind, Michael spoke up. “Anthony Crowley. The rock star. He called and said he’d be happy to put on a benefit concert to try and save Lofton Cares.”

Aziraphale blinked. “He...he what…”

Ignoring his awkward attempts to respond to her statement, Michael continued. “Yeah, at first I was skeptical too. I thought, some washed up rock star is not going to be able to pull us out of the financial hole we’re in. And then, the guy advertised the concert on social media, gave me the links to check out the advertisement posts…. Aziraphale, there are literally  _ tens of thousands _ of likes and shares!”

“Likes and shares?” Aziraphale wasn’t much for social media, but he knew that meant that the posts had gained a lot of popularity, had spread around the internet. He just wasn’t sure what that meant for Lofton Cares specifically.

“Yes!” Michael exclaimed, “Likes and shares! Thousands of them. He’s sold tickets, told everyone it’s to help keep the best drug rehab facility in the state afloat, and he’s sold…. Well…” she did a few quick calculations on her fingers, “a hundred thousand dollars worth of tickets!”

“What?” Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure he grasped what was happening here. “A hundred thousand dollars?”

“Yes,” Michael frowned a little at him in frustration with his slow-as-molasses comprehension skills. “He told me five thousand people have bought tickets already at $20 a pop. Said he’s likely to see at least another couple of thousand people buy tickets before it’s all said and done. But that’s not all!” Michael’s smile was back and it was unsettling for it’s sheer wattage. He’d never seen the woman smile this much in all the years he’d known her. “He’s also gotten a few big investors to sign on! He seems to have quite a bit of clout with some very influential, very wealthy people. The Walton-Brixton Foundation. The LGBT Support Foundation of NY and NJ. A few more. I mean, with sponsors like these, and the money from ticket sales alone… Lofton Cares is back up and running! We can start providing MAT and even bring back the residential facility! Hire on some new counselors. Get the cafeteria going again for real. Aziraphale! The man has saved our facility!”

“Oh my….” 

“Yeah,  _ oh my, _ ” Michael grinned at him. He felt his mouth turn up in a matching grin, as it all started to sink in. 

“Well, this is just ...fantastic… My gosh! I…. Michael, what fabulous news! Wait…” he paused, pondering her words for a moment. “Where is this concert supposed to take place? Surely with that many people…?”

“He said the Meadowlands. Brendan Byrne Arena? What are they calling it these days? The IZOD Center? It’s a  _ real concert,  _ Aziraphale. Not a backyard battle of the bands. This man means  _ business. _ ” 

“Oh….” Aziraphale felt extremely unprepared to react to news of this magnitude. “That’s fantastic,” he sounded numb, and Michael picked up on it.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong at all! This is fantastic news! I’m just a bit stunned,” he said. And he meant it. Crowley’s swooping in to save the day had not been on the long list of outcomes he’d imagined for Lofton Cares. He’d have to thank Crowley. He’d have to buy the man the world’s biggest fruit basket.  _ Or the largest bouquet of roses _ offered his stupid, swollen heart. He shoved the idea down and focused back on Micheal. “I suppose I should reach out and say thank you… for the rescue.” 

“That would be appropriate, yes,” Michael replied, as if explaining something to a small child. “I’ve already expressed my gratitude in all imaginable ways, short of kissing the man or proposing marriage.” 

Aziraphale flinched gently, and luckily, Michael didn’t seem to notice. “Alright! Well then, I’ll get in touch and express my thanks. Please let me know the details as they unfold?”

“Yes of course. I’ll email you location, date, time. I’ll send the links to his social media posts as well.”

They chatted for a few more minutes until Aziraphale excused himself, saying he had to run. He waited for another Uber, knowing he should save his money and simply walk to the bus, but he didn’t have the time. He wanted to reach out to Crowley to thank him, but was also afraid of what the man would say, what he thought of Aziraphale now, post rejection. He’d taken down Crowley’s address from Lofton Cares’ files and he would definitely be sending that fruit basket with a lovely note. Or just drop by… why not? 

_Because you might catch him at home with a date._ _Because he might not want to see you._ _Because he might be mad at you._

His brain was certainly not being helpful today. He decided, despite his fears, to stop in at Crowley’s anyway. He should be brave and face the music. The shock of hearing that Crowley had saved Lofton Cares House had worn off slowly, and now Aziraphale was a glowing ball of gratitude, brimming at the eyelids with thankfulness, and so… it was just best to say thank you in person. And he’s desperate to see the other man.  _ And _ this way, he’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone. He’ll first be able to thank Crowley, (in person, more meaningful than a text or email), and secondly, get a sense for how the other man feels. If there’s still some positive regard within him for Aziraphale. Perhaps they can salvage a friendship. 

When he got into the Uber, he gave the driver Crowley’s address. He didn’t bother calling first, and told himself it’s not at all because he doesn’t want to give Crowley a warning so the man can flee his apartment and avoid seeing Aziraphale. 

The Uber pulled up in front of the posh apartment complex where Crowley lives, and Aziraphale walked nervously over to the set of buzzers on the brick wall outside the front entrance. He spied “A. J. Crowley” in black blocky letters next to the topmost button and depressed it with a shaking thumb. 

There was a brief, heart wrenching moment of suspense before the intercom crackled to life “Yes?” Crowley’s warm, slightly nasally voice issued from the intercom box, and Aziraphale almost turned tail and ran away. 

“Crowley?” He said, hating how tremulous his voice had become. “It’s Aziraphale. I mean… it’s Mr. Fell. Can I come up?” 

There was no verbal response, but the door immediately buzzed open. Aziraphale, feeling a flush of sudden relief, pushed it inward and stepped into the foyer. He saw a lift, and pressed the up button, and the doors immediately slid open. Assuming that Crowley lived in an apartment on the top floor, he pushed the appropriate button and waited, heart in his throat for the lift ascend. He felt as if his stomach was left behind on the ground floor with how it was dropping with nerves. 

The lift dinged to a stop on the fourth floor and the doors slid open again and Aziraphale stepped nervously out into the hall. There was only one door in the short hallway on this floor, and it opened and Crowley poked his head around it. “Hey!” he said cheerily, and Aziraphale felt his shoulders and stomach unclench a bit at the sound of the friendly greeting. 

“Hello Crowley, is it alright if I come in?” 

“That’s why I buzzed you up,” Crowley responded with a slight smirk. He had his dark glasses on again, and he was playing it cool a little, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed not to be able to see the other man’s eyes. He walked over and Crowley backed up to allow him to enter the flat. 

Once inside, Aziraphale looked around, because he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Crowley at the moment. It was austere, the flat. Gray walls. Blocky furniture. A large, bushy gathering of plants in large pots in the corner. “Oh! You have so many plants!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands with glee.

“Yeah, I took your advice quite literally. Set up my own greenhouse in the other room.” 

“That’s just lovely,” Aziraphale was extremely pleased despite his nervousness. Crowley was standing near the just-closed door, looking at him from behind his shades, an unreadable expression on the rest of his face. He was wearing his usual faded t-shirt, but instead of the tight jeans, he has on a pair of black tracksuit bottoms. They look soft and comfortable. Aziraphale swallowed loudly. “How have you been?” he asked, because he’d always been crap at conversations when nervous. 

“I’ve been good,” Crowley replied with a shrug. “What can I do for you?” There was the barest hint of impatience, (or was it pain), in the man’s voice, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but cringe a bit at the sound of it. 

“I, um, I found out from Michael that you’re giving a benefit concert for Lofton Cares, and I just… I can’t express my gratitude enough. It’s amazing Crowley. I don’t know what to say.” He heard his own voice wavering, heard tears threatening to make an appearance, and fought them back with fists of pure determination.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Crowley sighed and shrugged again. He looked a little lost, a little uncomfortable with the gratitude. “It’s the least I could do to give back for all you- for what Lofton Cares House has given me.” 

The slip up on the word  _ you _ did not escape Aziraphale’s notice, and he felt his chest warming. “Well, you’ll have to let me send you something to properly say thank you. A fruit basket. A gift certificate. Do you like the cinema? I can send you a gift card for a year’s worth of films.” He couldn’t seem to stop the nervous stream of words falling from his lips.

“It’s OK Mr. Fell,” Crowley said, with placating motions of his hands, and Aziraphale died inside just a tiny bit at not being called  _ Aziraphale _ . “You don’t have to send me anything. I’m doing this because your rehab facility is a great place and it deserves a second chance. Not to get thanks or praise.” 

“Oh, well… alright.” Aziraphale fully planned to send a gift basket anyway, but he decided to drop the subject for the time being. “May I see your greenhouse?” he asked, because he didn’t want to leave, but had no other excuse to stay. 

Crowley, to Aziraphale’s complete and utter relief, smiled a genuine smile and nodded. “Sure,” he said, “right this way.” He turned and sauntered off toward a hall leading away from the spacious, open-plan sitting room and kitchen/dining area, and Aziraphale followed him, struggling and failing as he did so to keep his eyes off the man’s swinging hips. 

They walked down a short hallway and Crowley opened a door to the right. As soon as he did so, a billow of steamy air gusted out and caressed Aziraphale’s face. And then, then he could see nothing but green. 

The room behind the door was packed, wall to wall, floor to ceiling with plants. Plants of every variety, from the mundane to the exotic, were stacked on shelves, sitting in large, terra cotta pots and hanging from rope supports from the ceiling. A fine mist of water had just finished cascading down from what looked like a complex watering system installed above them. 

“Oh my,” breathed Aziraphale. “This is astounding!” He turned to Crowley, a grin on his face and saw Crowley smiling back. God but the man had a beautiful smile. Aziraphale looked away quickly, back at the profusion of emerald and chartreuse and fern and olive. All imaginable shades of green. “I’d no idea you’d taken the hobby to such lengths. This is… frankly, I’m amazed.”

“Didn’t think I had it in me, huh?” Crowley said, and though his words were a bit cynical, his smile was warm.  “I’m…” Aziraphale caught himself moments before he could say  _ so proud of you _ . “Very impressed,” he finished.


	13. Chapter 13

Crowley almost hadn’t believed it when Aziraphale had buzzed and asked to come up. He’d let the man in with a swift press of a button, then waited, biting at his nails, breathless and anxious at his front door while watching the lift numbers ding upward from the lobby. 

He was kicking himself for letting Aziraphale in, but also, how was he supposed to say no? Crowley didn’t possess that kind of self control. A long string of ruined hotel rooms, ruined relationships, banged up vehicles and trips to A&E proved that point well enough. 

Seeing Aziraphale again was already doing a number on him. Looking at the man’s large, sea coloured eyes as they swept over the interior decor of Crowley’s flat, watching his soft mouth part in surprise when spotting the plants in the corner. Crowley was already fighting the urge to grab him and kiss him and it hadn’t been more than two minutes.

But Aziraphale,  _ Mr. Fell _ , had made it clear that being kissed wasn’t a thing he wanted. Wasn’t  _ appropriate _ , and so Crowley held it all in and acted casual. Now, they were standing in the doorway to his greenhouse, chatting about plants, warming up a bit, and it was pure torture. The casualness. The politeness.

Crowley had thought of little else other than Aziraphale in the time they’d been apart. But importantly, he’d also started seeing a therapist, kept up his runs, worked hard to get in touch with the available members of Dark Angel to set up this benefit show. That had been fun. Everyone except Hastur had been available. Hastur, who was always a twat when it came to helping out friends, so no big loss there. But no matter, Beez would play bass, and Ligur had lead guitar, and his friend Tim, who went by the regrettable stage name, ‘Disposable Demon’ would play drums to fill in for Hastur. They were all thrilled at the chance to play a stadium again and Crowley pulled some strings to get one night booked at the IZOD arena for two weeks from today. It was a short turnaround, but the social media posts were spreading like wildfire and they’d already sold thousands of tickets. So, he was confident they’d play to a relatively packed house, despite the short notice. 

“How’s everyone doing?” he asked Aziraphale. He missed the gang, hoped they were faring well. 

“Oh, everyone is alright I suppose. I’ve been checking in with them, and they seem to be holding up. I’m surprised they hadn’t told me about this concert before now.” As if to illustrate his point, his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He fished it out and glanced at the screen, then, smiling, turned his phone out to show Crowley. A text from ‘Anathema’ was partially displayed, including a lot of exclamation points. “It seems I’ve spoken a bit too soon,” Aziraphale said, sounding happy in a way that tugged at Crowley’s heart. 

Crowley looked down at his feet, stubbed the toe of his trainer against the floor. He wasn’t quite sure what to say next. Thankfully, Aziraphale was in a talkative mood. 

“Did you manage to contact your band mates to come play with you?” he asked. “I’ve no idea how you made this happen so quickly.”

“I pulled some strings,” Crowley said, happy to have a subject to cling to. He told Aziraphale all about the process of reaching out to his old band mates, contacting people that worked for the arena, the rush and hustle involved with setting something like this up so quickly. “I was honestly surprised at the ticket sales and the success of the social media posts. S’pose I’m not as irrelevant as I thought.”

“Oh, people adore you Crowley! Surely you know that by now.” Aziraphale was looking at him very fondly, and Crowley felt his cheeks go hot. He dropped his gaze and looked back at the floor, and his shyness was perhaps infectious, because Aziraphale shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “Well, I’m certainly very grateful,” he said.

“Don’t say that,” Crowley found himself snapping just a bit, then kicked himself for his sharp tone, and gentled his voice before continuing. “What I mean is, I’m doing this for Lofton Cares House. I mean,  _ and _ for you, because you  _ are _ basically the reason the place is so wonderful. But mostly, it’s important to me that those people you counsel have a place to go to that they love...where they feel comfortable.” He couldn’t stand Aziraphale seeing this for the grand romantic gesture it actually was underneath it all. As Crowley spilling his heart out, working double time, pulling out all the stops to save Aziraphale’s business. Because for all his claims to altruism, this all still came down to helping Aziraphale… 

“Of course,” Azirpahale’s tone was soft and a little sad, or perhaps Crowley was just imagining that part. “All I meant to say is that I’m very grateful.   


“I know. I didn’t mean to snap. Don’t mind me. Head’s all over the place. Would you like some tea? Some coffee?”

Aziraphale surprised him by agreeing. They made their way to Crowley’s embarrassingly empty kitchen and he put the kettle on, offered Aziraphale a selection of his only two tea varieties. Aziraphale chose the herbal one, which had plenty of tea bags left, as Crowley only kept it around for guests. He preferred his tea with drugs in it, thank you very much. Caffeine was the only drug he’d still allowed himself, and he had every intention of clinging to it for the rest of his life. 

They settled with their tea at Crowley’s small, dining room table, and surprisingly, it wasn’t that uncomfortable. They talked for a long time, Aziraphale telling Crowley about his strict religious upbringing, Crowley talking about his alcoholic parents and obsession with Elvis Presley. They unsurprisingly had a lot in common, growing up gay, closeted. Growing up under the constant threat of alcohol fueled rage and recrimination. It made a person averse to confrontation, killed a person’s self esteem. 

There was a warmth between them, a camaraderie that Crowley tried very hard not to read too much into. Aziraphale probably still felt guilty about crossing a boundary when they’d kissed a week ago. The look of shame and anguish on his face as he’d pushed Crowley gently out of his arms, had struck Crowley like an arrow in the heart. 

He had no intentions of pushing. He would absolutely not make a move unless Aziraphale made one first. And Aziraphale, ( _ Mr. Fell! Damn it _ ), was on his best, most polite, least flirtatious behavior. Not that the man had been anything but professional before Crowley had grabbed him and kissed him, but now, he was keeping very careful boundaries up. 

Speaking of their kiss… Crowley tried to redirect his thoughts away from the soft feel of Azirpahale’s lips parting to admit his questing tongue, and focus in on their conversation again. That kiss had certainly felt very very enthusiastic. Not the cautious action of a man who didn’t want the contact, but a hungry, wet, passionate thing. 

And then there had been the magazine. Crowley’s photo shoot Vogue, sitting face down in the man’s bloody living room.

But regardless, Mr. Fell was all business, or rather, all friendship today. But the friendship was there. He was smiling broadly, his angel-smile that made Crowley’s chest feel like it was full of fireworks, and his hands were up and gesticulating gracefully as he spoke. He was describing his secondary school days, boys he’d crushed on, being teased for being plump and out of fashion (apparently a constant state of being for him, rather than a later-in-life situation). This made Crowley swell with fondness that he fought valiantly to hide. 

After what felt like minutes, but was probably closer to two hours, Aziraphale said he should probably go. Crowley wanted to beg him to stay, but since that would come across as a touch desperate, he just nodded and smiled politely, said he should probably get back to his day as well. 

“You’ll come to the concert, won’t you?” He’d almost forgotten to ask, and had realized he couldn’t assume. 

“Oh! Well of course I shall. I’ve never been to that particular venue. It’s rather large isn’t it? I do hope there are tickets left.”

“The place holds 19 thousand, so I think we’ll be fine on tickets,” Crowley said with a smile. “I took the liberty of getting you a seat in the fifth row, center. I got all of you, Ana, Shadwell, Tracy, the whole gang… got you all seats in the fifth row, center stage. Would have been the first, but I had to promise the band mates they could have seats for their family and friends in the first few rows to get them on board. Which is actually better, because then you won’t have to crane your neck.”

“Oh Crowley, how kind of you! Oh! Adam and Pepper will be overjoyed! Thank you!” Aziraphale’s eyes were shining with gratitude and his face was flushed. He looked supremely handsome and utterly kissable and so Crowley shrugged and looked away, waving off his exclamations with a dismissive hand. 

“S’nothing,” he mumbled. “It’s your concert… couldn’t have you all the way up in the nosebleeds.” 

He walked Aziraphale to the lift and gave him a brisk, businesslike smile as the doors closed between them. His flat felt emptier after Aziraphale left, and he couldn’t help but notice that the man had caused a soft, vanilla and bergamot smell to linger in the air. 

What would happen after the concert was done? Crowley had quit going to counseling at Lofton Cares, and honestly, though that group had been a huge catalyst toward him getting his life back together, he didn’t feel he needed it any longer. He had a great therapist, A Dr. Nutter, who came highly recommended by several of his most respectable friends and acquaintances who knew about therapy. He was drug and alcohol free and had lots of solid coping mechanisms in place. And he was falling in love with his ex counselor, so really, he couldn’t ever go back. But could he simply let Aziraphale out of his life? How long would it take before Aziraphale ditched his professional guilt and allowed himself something good…. Allowed himself to be with Crowley?

Crowley couldn’t bear the idea of remaining friends with Aziraphale. That would simply be a long, slow sort of torture, but he couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again either. If only there were a way to find out how the other man truly felt… 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor cw for mentions of childhood abuse

The day of the concert arrived, and Aziraphale was beyond nervous. For one, he’d never been to a rock concert before. His experience with live music had to do exclusively with church choirs, (one of which he used to sing in as a child) and a few singer-songwriter performances in coffee shops, a live jazz performance here and there. But they were in tiny venues and shops, small nightclubs. Not in a massive stadium, filled with screaming people. 

He’d emailed back and forth with his sister Uriel, who’d had a bit of experience in such matters, rock concerts and nightlife in general before settling down, and asked her what he should do to prepare. She’d sent him a one word, bolded response:

**Earplugs**

Well then. Aziraphale went out and bought a pair of spongy, pink ear plugs for the noise. He’d worried that having the plugs in would prevent him from hearing the music, but Uriel had assured him that he’d hear everything loud and clear. The ear plugs were only there to save his ear drums from bleeding. He’d assumed she’d been joking, but she hadn’t specified. 

She also told him not to purchase any beverages, being that they’d cost more than his monthly rent. A bottle of water alone cost around 8 dollars! Other than that, she said that someone would be there to show him to his seat and that he would have a good time. She wrote that she was a bit envious, that she missed going to concerts, hoped he’d have fun.

Aziraphale had never heard Crowley sing live before. He’d watched a couple of (frightfully sexy) Dark Angel music videos on YouTube, but hadn’t ever actually heard the man sing outside of a carefully synthed and processed recording. He was excited in a way that made a thrill twist through his stomach whenever he thought of the upcoming event. 

He’d arranged to meet Ana and the rest of the Lofton Cares gang at the entrance to the amphitheater. That way he wouldn’t have to wander about, hopelessly lost before finding his way to their seats. It was an hour and fifteen minute trip to the IZOD arena from his house by car, but instead of taking an Uber, which would be rather expensive, he opted for a longer route of taking a bus to the train station, then a train to a short Uber ride to the stadium. It was a fifteen minute walk, but he’d rather not show up sweaty and disheveled, nor did he much relish the thought of walking around in crowded, hectic parts of north Jersey on foot. 

He arrived at the entrance and spent a few nervous moments scanning the crowd, before he heard Ana call his name. She and Newt were standing by a large, gray pillar near the entrance to the arena, holding hands. This was a new development, but Aziraphale tactfully didn’t draw attention to it. He gave them both a broad smile and a wave and walked over to greet them. 

“Are you excited for the concert Mr. Fell?” Asked Newt. He had a massive grin on his face. Oh yes, something new was going on with between him and Ana for sure!

“I _am_ rather excited, yes. This is my first big concert, and well, I’ve never heard Crowley sing before.” He didn’t mention the seven or eight times he’d watched Crowley’s music videos, in the privacy of his home. 

“You’re in for an experience,” Ana enthused, grinning from ear to ear. 

They were soon joined by Pepper and Adam, who were both wearing Dark Angel t-shirts. It was a little surreal to see Crowley’s face, along with the faces of the other band members, emblazoned on a pair of matching shirts, along with images of crows and barbed wire and the words ‘Dark Angel’ in fancy black and gold script along the top. Aziraphale looked around at the large crowds of people and realized that they were all here, in essence, to see Crowley. The reality of the man’s fame, a thing that had meant nothing to Aziraphale aside from the trouble it had caused Crowley from his past life, was starting to sink in. 

With that realization came the hollow feeling that of course Aziraphale would never have been enough for Crowley. Even if the peak of his fame had passed, he was still pulling thousands of fans to come hear him sing. He was still splashed across the pages of fashion magazines. He had the money and the freedom to jaunt off to a foreign country on vacation or to get into the poshest clubs in the blink of an eye. Aziraphale looked down at his faded waistcoat and his cream coloured dress trousers and his old fashioned shoes and frowned. He should have worn something edgier. Something darker maybe. He felt like an English professor at a rave. Like a fat, old pigeon, surrounded by sleek starlings. 

Tracy and Shadwell’s arrival knocked him out of his morose thoughts. Tracy was also wearing a Dark Angel t shirt, whereas Shadwell was wearing a frown. “Too many people,” he grumbled the moment he was within earshot. Tracy gave him a playful slap to the shoulder and batted her eyelashes at him, and well, it appeared that perhaps everyone in the Lofton Cares House therapy group had coupled up. Aziraphale was happy for them. Dating wasn’t always the best option for people in recovery, but they were all doing well, and had shared perspectives. He would simply look the other way and not comment on any of it. 

“It’s lovely to see you all together in one place!” He exclaimed, looking at his small brood of clients. “Soon, we can all have therapy together again, thanks to Crowley.”

Ana smiled a smile that was a bit sad. “Well, Newt and I think maybe we’re doing OK,” she said, looking up at Newt with glowing eyes. “We might give the sessions a break for a while. See what it’s like to go it on our own.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale was struck with a mix of emotions, pride, for the progress they’d made, and sadness at a perceived loss of connection. Perhaps this disruption of Lofton Cares temporary closure had been good for them. 

“We’ll still be there Mr. Fell,” reassured Tracy, and Adam and Pepper nodded along in agreement. “Don’t look so sad.”

“Oh! I’m not sad!” Aziraphale wiped the melancholy look off his face and replaced it with a sunny grin. “I’m very happy that the two of you want to strike out on your own without the group. Progress always involves change. Please do let me know how you’re doing if you can, and as you know, our doors are always open to you both.” 

Ana looked a little teary eyed, and so he changed the subject. “When do we take our seats? I’m curious to see the inside of this monstrosity.” Aziraphale looked up at the looming gray walls of the stadium above him, seeming taller than the largest cathedral. A susurrus of voices and footfalls and some distant, echoing rock music from the PA system echoed from inside. As if the building contained an entire ocean. 

“We can go now if you want,” Ana replied. Adam and Pepper nodded happily and bounced a bit in anticipation. It seemed the two of them had become massive Dark Angel fans since Crowley had joined the group. 

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, taking a deep breath. He followed the group through security, where the women opened their bags for inspection and everyone was briefly wanded down with metal detectors. It was intimidating. Being checked over as if one were entering an airport, or a federal prison, but Aziraphale supposed it was for the best, with this many people in one place… especially a place that sold alcohol. _Oh no_. 

As soon as they’d all gathered together inside the glass doors and were standing in the lobby, he stepped in close and lowered his voice. “I hadn’t even realized that they sold alcohol here. Is everyone alright?”

He received firm nods and smiles from the whole group. “Don’t worry Mr. Fell, we’re doing fine,” Tracy patted him on the arm in a motherly fashion. It struck him suddenly, that his small group of therapy clients were doing far better than he’d had the wherewithal to realize. While he’d been caught up in worries over Crowley and the closing of Lofton Cares House, he hadn’t noticed that they’d grown stronger, more stable, more confident. He felt his heart swell with pride and gratitude and gave them a small nod and a smile. 

The group moved its way toward one of the large entranceways to the venue, and Aziraphale felt his heart skip a beat as they passed through and he suddenly found himself inside a cavernous room. The enormity of the space alone took his breath away, not to mention the flashes of mobile phone cameras going off all up and down the long, sloping walls of the venue, the farthest of which seemed miles away. 

Massive, black, hulking boxes of audio and visual equipment hung from a ceiling festooned with long banks of powerful lights and thick ropes of wire were everywhere. Loud rock music was already blaring from the PA system, but it was thankfully not as loud as it could be, and talking was comfortable if one shouted just a bit. The group made its way down a long, sloping ramp, broken up by short groups of wide steps, down and down and down toward the relatively small stage at its center. Soon, with the help of an usher, they were all seated in a row. Aziraphale’s ticket had him dead center in the row, directly in front of the stage, with Ana on one side and Tracy on the other. The seats, though smallish, were comfortable. He took several long moments to gaze at their surroundings with his mouth hanging open. 

Up on the stage, men and women in black were running around fixing things, tuning sound equipment, readying the guitars and drum set and adjusting microphones. There was an electric feeling of expectation in the air, and Aziraphale felt it vibrate in the pit of his stomach. Soon, Anthony Crowley, the man he was hopelessly a mess over, would stride onto that stage and sing. It was a surreal concept, and one Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure he was prepared for. He was used to seeing Crowley at his therapy group, or in quiet settings, talking to him, sharing ideas. Not seeing him on a stage in front of thousands of fans. 

After what felt like maybe a half an hour, during which Adam and Pepper got up and left and returned with gigantic cups of soda, (that probably cost 15$ each), the lights began to flicker and flash. The crowd, as one, all began screaming, hooting and hollering and clapping. Aziraphale almost jumped out of his skin at the sudden rush of noise, but soon adjusted. He supposed the commotion meant that Dark Angel would soon take to the stage. He felt Ana pat his arm and turned to find her grinning at him. 

“This is so cool Mr. Fell!” She shouted (she had to, in order to be heard). Aziraphale nodded and gave her a weak smile. He felt suddenly very nervous, his throat dry and palms damp. 

The band members appeared, so quickly and casually, just jogging on stage and taking up their positions without fanfare, that Aziraphale wouldn’t have noticed if the crowd hadn’t gone completely bonkers. Crowley wasn’t there yet, at least Aziraphale couldn’t see him by scanning the faces of the existing band members. There was a small, dark haired person, slinging a bass guitar across their shoulders that he assumed was Beez, and a slender, dark haired drummer and a dark skinned bloke with an elaborate configuration of dreadlocks on top of his head who picked up a guitar, but no Crowley.

It was then that the crowd started chanting Crowley’s name. “CROW-LEY, CROW-LEY, CROW-LEY!!!”

Aziraphale felt his face split open in a massive grin and his heart take flight. He knew that wherever Crowley was, likely standing just inside the doorway of some backstage area, waiting to come out, that he probably loved that sound. He always seemed to thrive under the attention of others. And now Aziraphale understood why. When you’ve been beaten down, told that you’re worthless, stupid, and a whole host of other terrible things for most of your formative years, it might take several thousand people, eagerly chanting your name to break through that muck and make you feel good. 

He realized with a swell of pride and affection that Crowley had done so much work to give that feeling to himself. Through his running, and his caring for his plants, his therapy sessions, his sobriety. He’d come so far, and he deserved this. And the fact that he was doing all of it for Lofton Cares? It brought tears swimming to Aziraphale’s eyes. 

His cathartic mood was completely forgotten however when Crowley finally did come striding onto the stage. He was wearing all black. Tight black jeans, a silky black shirt, half open down the front. His hair was pulled into a crimson bun on the back of his head with small tendrils of it falling free about his face. He had his shades on, (his trademark) and a wide, pointy, white grin on his face. He looked beautiful, brilliant, full of life and joy. Aziraphale realized fully and suddenly that he was in love with the man on that stage. He let the feeling course through him, didn’t fight it or second guess it, just basked in the joy of seeing Anthony J. Crowley, in his element, doing his thing. 

“Hello New Jersey!!” Crowley shouted into the mic, and the crowd swelled to new levels of noise, screaming, clapping. A sea of mobile phones were held aloft, filming the show. 

Crowley didn’t say anything else, he just turned, nodded to the band members behind him and they launched into the first song. The music burst forth, louder than anything Aziraphale had ever heard, and he fished quickly in his pockets for the earplugs, putting them in hurriedly. His sister had been right, the noise level didn’t lessen much, it just lost its sharpness and grew more manageable for his poor, 50 year old ears. Once the earplugs were in place, he could focus on enjoying the music. It was a snappy number, a rollicking explosion of noise, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but tap his feet. 

Crowley stepped up to the mic and began to sing, and his voice was just _perfect_. He sounded sexy and rough and smooth and sensual all at the same time. Aziraphale had no idea how he did it, but now that he was listening to Crowley sing live, the band’s success of 20 years ago made that much more sense. Crowley was a force of nature, a long, lanky, sinuous, erotic force of nature. He pranced around the stage, swung his hips, jerked his shoulders, gesticulated at the crowd, all while belting out the words to the song in a voice that defied description. 

The first number ended and the second began, and then the third. Each song was fantastic. The musicians gave their all and looked as if they were having a lot of fun in the process. Every once in a while, Beez the bassist would step up to the mic and help Crowley out with vocals, their surprisingly light and melodious voice adding a beautiful counterpart to Crowley’s deep, honeyed growl. Aziraphale could see their camaraderie and decades long friendship in the way they grinned at each other.

The rest of the Lofton Cares gang was having a great time as well. Everyone, (including Aziraphale after a moment’s confusion) had bolted to their feet, and now they were all standing, dancing, pumping their arms in the air, singing along or yelling at the top of their lungs. Even Shadwell was nodding his head a little, and Aziraphale was pleased to see the same pink squishy earplugs in the other man’s ears. Aziraphale was not quite comfortable enough to follow suit with the yelling and dancing, but he did tap his foot and sway from side to side and clap a bit. He even let out a couple of restrained “wahoo”s when the music really got to him. 

The band played on, for probably an hour and a half, perhaps two? Pretty soon everyone was sweating and their voices were horse from yelling, even Aziraphale, and he felt a wild sort of glee rise up and take root inside him. He understood now. Understood why Crowley had loved this life so much, how he’d struggled with a decrease in attention and fame. How he’d struggled to let it all go and finally focus on himself. He was a god up there on that stage. Sweat slicked, gleaming, constantly mobile. He seemed to have boundless energy, and the smile on his face, that he couldn’t quite suppress between verses or between songs, made Aziraphale smile in response. Crowley was solidly in his element, and Aziraphale was along for the thrilling ride of the thing. 

Eventually though, Crowley announced that it was time to wind things down and say goodnight. 

“I know most of you are aware,” he said, a little breathless, into the mic, “that this evening’s performance was a charity event. Lofton Cares House in Lofton NJ is one of the best drug and alcohol rehab facilities in the country. I should know,” he winked at the audience, and a smattering of knowing chuckles rippled through the crowd. “They almost went under, what with the competition from the local hospital, and you all, you folks, you really helped them get back on their feet. So here’s to the fans! We couldn’t have done it without you!” He clapped, and then everyone else clapped, and more screams and cheers and hoots ensued. 

Crowley grinned out at the audience, and then, he did an unexpected thing. He removed his shades. Tucked them into the pocket of his damp, clingy, black shirt and swept the dark tendrils of sweat-drenched hair back from his face. The crowd went nuts, screaming and clapping. Apparently, Crowley taking his shades off, was a _thing_. Aziraphale’s only regret was at this distance, he couldn't quite see the lovely, liquid amber colour of Crowley’s eyes. 

Crowley turned to beckon to someone from backstage, and two of the men in black shirts and trousers and black baseball caps came out, carrying a portable keyboard between them. They set it down, brought out a mic and trained it toward the instrument. Crowley dragged a stool over to the electric piano and sat behind it, and a woman in black brought over his mic and helped him adjust it to his new, sitting height, before scampering back off stage.

“I thought I’d finish out the night with a cover,” he said. He spent a few moments adjusting knobs on the electric keyboard, before looking back out at the audience. It seemed, and Aziraphale doubted this was true, that Crowley was looking directly at him. 

“There’s someone out there in the audience tonight, someone who means a lot to me,” he said. “And this is one of their favorite songs. And it’s really a perfect song to express how I feel about this person…” he paused, swallowed. “About this man.” 

Aziraphale’s throat went dry and his heart began to pound. It couldn’t be… Crowley couldn’t possibly be… 

He felt Ana squeezing his arm, and turned to find her grinning at him, her eyes shining. “It’s you Mr. Fell! It’s you!” She whispered to him. How she had any idea who the song was for, let alone that it might be for Aziraphale was beyond him. He gaped at her in utter surprise.

“Feel free to sing along with the chorus,” Crowley said into the mic. “I’m sure most of you know the words.” He looked down, set his fingers on the keys, and began to play. The notes, so well worn and familiar to Aziraphale in this brand new place, were instantly recognizable. He felt his breath catch in his throat and his heart flip and start beating double time as the achingly lovely melody spilled out into the space between them. Crowley sang the first few words, and Aziraphale’s vision blurred with tears. 

_Highway run… into the midnight sun. Wheels go round and round… you’re on my mind._

Aziraphale was leaking tears, trying to wipe them away before anyone noticed, but it was too late. Everyone from Lofton Cares was already turning in their seats to stare at him, their faces painted with varying degrees of joy and confusion. He put his hands over his face and felt himself flush with embarrassed heat. 

_Restless hearts… Sleep alone tonight… sending all my love, along the wiiiiire_

Crowley’s voice was hauntingly lovely. The piano chords breaking into the hushed silence of the amphitheater were more beautiful than any church choir Aziraphale had ever heard. He was sobbing now. He wanted to lift his face and look at Crowley, but he was also terrified. What could this possibly mean? Crowley, playing Aziraphale’s favorite song, to thousands of fans. Saying how much he cared. He knew what it meant of course, but his mind was trying very hard to tell his battered, bleeding heart it was all a lie. No one like Crowley, Crowley who burned like a bright flame, up there on that stage, could love a man like Aziraphale. 

_Lovin a music man aint always what it’s spose to be. Ooooh girl, you stand byyy meee._

The entire auditorium joined in on the next line, and Aziraphale finally found the courage to look up at Crowley, who he swore was looking right back. Thousands of voices swelled along with his as he ramped slowly up to that title line.

_I’m for-ev-er yoooouurs…. Faithfully._

A searing electric guitar note cut across the piano like a lonesome bird call, and the drums kicked in and then the audience went crazy. 

_Circus life… under the big top world. We all need the clowns to make us smile…._

_Through space and time… always another shoooowwww. Wondering where I am… lost without you…_

The lyrics were so blatantly romantic. Aziraphale couldn’t seem to stop crying, but at least he wasn’t hiding his face behind his hands any longer. He was staring up at Crowley, feeling his heart burst like a supernova inside his chest. God, but Crowley was so beautiful up there. His face earnest, his eyes closed now as he belted out the words in that lovely voice. 

_...being apart aint easy on this love affair…. Two strangers learn to fall in love again. I get the joy of rediscovering you… ohhhhh girl, you stand byyy meee. I’m forever yours… faithfully._

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile through his tears. Crowley _Ioved him_ . He did. It was so clear to him now. It wasn’t a one night fling he wanted. It wasn’t a quick shag after all. It was Journey. It was sugary sweet, sentimental, hand holding, long walks in the park affection. It was love. He had to laugh at himself just a little that it took an entire auditorium of screaming fans singing out the lyrics to his favorite song, led by the man he loved, for him to realize he was loved back. But now that he knew, he _knew_. 

_Whoa-oo oh ooh. Whoa oh ooh oh_ Thousands of voices sang along as Crowley crooned out the rest of the chorus, keened out the notes into the mic. 

_Faithfully….I’m still yours...faithfully. I’m forever yours...ever yours… faithfully_

The electric guitar wailed, the symbols clashed. The song reached its crescendo and coasted down the other side toward its end, and the audience rose up and screamed their hearts out. Aziraphale felt himself get clapped on the back by the people behind him, who by now had figured out that he was one Crowley was singing about. Anathema and Tracy patted him as well, and everyone had politely stopped staring, affording him some much needed privacy with which to wipe away his tears and blow his nose on a handkerchief. 

People were edging past them to leave, getting a start on the rush to exit the auditorium, and Aziraphale sat there, stunned. He looked back up at the stage in time to see Crowley wave and bow and ask for applause for his band mates before they all bowed and left the stage, amid a cacophony of clapping and screaming, whistles and hoots. 

“Mr. Fell, Mr. Fell, are you OK?” Newt was looking down at him, with a concerned expression on his face. 

“Oh! I’m sorry! Yes, I’m fine,” Aziraphale shook himself. “Is it time to go?” He rose and made his way unsteadily out into the aisle along with the rest of the gang and together, they filed toward the exits. Ana sidled up to him. 

“Mr. Fell,” she said, in a hushed voice, leaning in so that no one else could hear. “I had no idea you and Crowley were… together.” 

Aziraphale felt a small stab of panic, but quickly quelled it before responding. “We’re _not_ ,” he said, rather more fervently than he’d intended, and watching her eyebrows lift in surprise. “At least, well… I mean, there was something there, but nothing got said really. Nothing...happened. We spent some time together in a professional capacity, and I suppose… we both recognized that… well… regardless, he was a client, and I could never.. I would never-”

“Calm down, Mr. Fell, it’s OK. I believe you. You’ve always been the soul of propriety with all of us.” She walked beside him for another moment or two in silence. “So…” she said next. “Do you like him? That was a pretty intense song for ‘spending some time together professionally’.”

“Let's not discuss this right now Ana, if you please.” Aziraphale used his kindest tone when politely telling her to mind her business. He liked Ana, perhaps even loved her in an avuncular way, but she was also a client and he wasn’t feeling particularly daring at the moment. She grinned at him and relented with a knowing look. 

On the train on the way home, Aziraphale sent Crowley a simple, five word text.

_When can I see you?_

The answer came back far more swiftly than he’d expected.

**_Tomorrow morning? Will that work? How early do you get up?_ **

He responded, heart in his throat

_I have off tomorrow. Anytime after 7 is fine_

**_Perfect. See you at 10_ **

  
The rest of the night passed in a pink haze. Aziraphale couldn’t seem to focus on anything, and the whole evening, as he readied himself for bed and climbed beneath the covers, he was softly humming Journey’s _Faithfully_ …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone out there hasn't heard Journey's Faithfully, I strongly encourage you to listen. I also strongly encourage you to do so via a YouTube video like this one, with lyrics only. I'm afraid the original music video did not age well hahah.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FXR2O6LyJSw
> 
> I love this song so so much and when anon suggested it as Crowley's method of confessing his love for Aziraphale, I thought no song could be more perfect. Last chapter coming soon!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK seriously. Just one chapter after this one and then I'm done!
> 
> Enjoy the E rated material folks. This was not beta read and I get distracted and a little nervous when I write smut, so don't mind the mistakes. I can't see them when I have my smut writing glasses on.

Surprisingly enough to Crowley, coming out of the closet to 5+ thousand people at once turned out to be not all that much of a disaster. It actually turned out quite well. 

The hubbub started on twitter, where one of his ardent followers tweeted a video clip of his dedication to Aziraphale, with the caption: CROWLEY COMES OUT!!!1!!

Then Facebook, Tumblr and Instagram got into the mix, and before the band had their instruments packed away, Crowley’s sexual orientation was all over social media, and his mobile was lighting up with emails and phone calls, looking for interviews. The responses were overwhelmingly positive. His fanbase had apparently grown up since the 90s (in more than just chronological ways), and were now more open minded, along with the newer, younger fans, who’d gone to school in more open, LGBTQ friendly places. Not to mention all the fans new and old who were LGBTQ themselves

Yes, there was some backlash. Some not very nice things got said in the comments sections of a few YouTube videos, and a couple of fundamentalist religious organizations put out some very harshly worded opinions. Crowley however found those things easy to ignore in the face of the hundreds of thousands of positive shares, reblogs, mentions, tags and posts about his recent revelation. 

He was beyond glad he hadn’t mentioned Aziraphale’s name during the dedication. No one but the other Lofton Cares clients knew he’d been singing to Aziraphale. He never wanted any of the crappy things said online to reach Aziraphale in any way. 

Speaking of Aziraphale… He’d invited Crowley over. This fact made Crowley’s stomach try to declare independence from the rest of him and crawl out of his mouth with nervousness. They hadn’t spoken at all since Aziraphale had left Crowley’s flat two weeks ago. No texts. No calls. All Crowley had had for company had been fantasies about Aziraphale, worries about Aziraphale, and his own, silent pining. 

He’d come up with the idea for the song dedication after speaking to Beez. The conversation going something like this:

Crowley: “I think I’m in love with him.”

Beez: “You _think_ you’re in love with him?”

Crowley: “Fine, I am _actually_ in love with him. What do I do?”

Beez: “Have you told him this?”

Crowley: “What? That I’m in love with him? Are you mental? Of course not! The man rejected me!”

Beez: “But he kissed you right?”

Crowley: “Yes,”

Beez: “And he seemed to really like that?”

Crowley: “Definitely. Yes. He liked it. A lot. I could tell…. By the way he tried to eat my face.”

Beez: “Then he loves you back. You should tell him.”

Crowley: “HOW?” (pulling at his hair and glaring at Beez.. they were hanging out after one of the band's few rehearsals in the week leading up to the show).

Beez: “Play his favorite song for him when you’re on stage tonight. Buy him flowers… how the Hell should I know? I’m a misanthrope.”

Crowley: “ya know… that song thing is actually a good idea.”

Beez: (smiling smugly) “What’s his favorite song? Do you even know?”

Crowley: “Yes! _For your information,_ I do. It happens to be, and I can’t believe I’m telling you, because this song is so dumb… _Faithfully_ by Journey.”

Beez: “BLOODY HELL! WE ARE TOTALLY DOING THIS!”

And so that’s how it went. Crowley, the more he thought about it, the more he liked Beez’s idea. Also, he could keep it vague, not mention Aziraphale’s name directly, protect his anonymity. But as far as grand, romantic gestures went, it was a _big one_. It wouldn’t be easy for Aziraphale to get the wrong impression, or to doubt Crowley’s sincerity. 

And now it was out. His love for Aziraphale. And his orientation. _He_ was out. At last. After more than 40 years spent knowing he was gay and not telling anyone, other than the partners he’d kept locked in the closet with him.

And Aziraphale knew about his feelings. And guess what? Now Crowley _loved Faithfully_ by Journey. God damn but that was a romantic song. He’d dismissed it when it had played on the radio incessantly in the mid 80s as surgery schlock, and then, he’d gone and aged his way into a demographic that adored sugary schlock, and he hadn’t even noticed the transition. Oh well. He guessed he liked Journey now. 

He knocked on Aziraphale’s door at 10:01am the next day with his heart in his throat. He’d toyed with the idea of bringing flowers, or pastries, or some other little token with which to hopefully start out a courtship, but then had abandoned the idea. What if Aziraphale had changed his mind? What if Aziraphale’s text of _When can I see you?_ Had meant something else? 

He’d find out soon either way. He could hear Aziraphale’s footsteps drawing closer to the front door, and he fought not to turn tail and run. 

The door swung open and he was greeted with a bright, if slightly nervous smile. “Crowley! Do come in.”

He stepped inside, past Aziraphale, and heard Aziraphale shut the door behind him. Then he was pressed up against it and kissed quite soundly. 

“Mmf!” He made an abrupt, happy noise as a soft pair of lips collided with his own, and a deliciously soft body was very suddenly in his arms. 

Aziraphale quickly broke the kiss and stepped back, looking a bit confused, as if he hadn’t intended to kiss Crowley, and was surprised at himself for doing it. “I’m ever so sorry,” he said, adjusting his bow tie. “It appears I got away from myself there for a moment.”

“Nothing to apologize for at all,” Crowley, still reeling a bit from the unexpected influx of warm, soft lips, eyed Aziraphale with a smile creeping across his face. “You can do that whenever.” Aziraphale taking charge and pinning him against a flat surface was definitely not a problem. 

“Yes, but I really should have asked first. Only, I appear to have gotten myself a bit worked up waiting for you.” Aziraphale grinned. “Would you like some tea?”

“Sure,” Crowley grinned back at him. Well, it certainly looked as if his question of whether or not Aziraphale returned his feelings had been answered. 

He followed Aziraphale into the kitchen and watched as he filled a kettle and put it on the stove, turned on the heat and opened a cabinet. “How’ve you been?” Crowley asked, because that’s the sort of thing you ask someone when you show up to their house and they’re making you tea. 

“Your concert was brilliant!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I’d never been to a big venue like that, and it was just breathtaking!” He placed two tea cups down on the counter top. One was black, with a picture of a snake on it and the words _Bronx Zoo_ emblazoned underneath. The other was white and had little angel wings for a handle. Crowley was instantly charmed. 

“Glad you liked it,” Crowley said, though a grin. “I wasn’t sure you would. Wasn’t sure it was your type of music. It certainly isn’t bebop.”

“I loved it!” Aziraphale enthused. He was standing now, with his hands on his hips by the stove, his face beaming, and Crowley wondered if tea was absolutely necessary. “You and your band mates are very talented. And… that last song… you. Well..” he blushed prettily and his eyes slid away from Crowley’s face, down to his feet. “I can’t tell you how much that meant to me, Crowley. Thank you.”

“S’no problem,” Crowley mumbled, feeling his own face grow hot. 

“Can we dispense with the tea?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley felt his heart leap and begin pounding away inside his chest. 

“Oh, yeah. I don’t need it… if you’d rather..” he trailed off as Aziraphale switched off the stove top and stepped closer. 

“May I kiss you again?” Aziraphale asked, looking at Crowley through thick, dark blond lashes, and Crowley almost laughed at the seriousness of his request. 

“Angel, you can kiss me whenever you like,” he replied, his voice low and gruff. The nickname just slipped out without him even realizing it. 

“Oh good,” whispered Aziraphale as he leaned in and closed the distance between them. Their lips met again and Crowley may have squeaked just a bit as Aziraphale pressed him against the counter and wrapped strong, warm arms around Crowley’s waist. Crowley’s arms came up around Aziraphale’s neck and his hands framed the other man’s face as the kiss continued. 

It started soft and sweet, but didn’t stay that way for long. Soon, their mouths opened and the kiss deepened and Crowley heard Aziraphale let out a sigh, which swiftly turned into a low moan. “Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale whispered between sweeps of lips and tongue. Crowley was almost certain no one had ever called him _my darling_ before, and even if they had, it wasn’t in that achingly affectionate way, breathed between kisses like Aziraphale had just done. 

“Angel,” he said. Aziraphale’s hands had begun to roam, up his back, gripping at his waist. He did an experimental roll of his hips against Aziraphale’s body and felt the evidence of what the kiss was doing to both of them, and Aziraphale moaned again against his lips. 

Aziraphale pulled away, breathless and flushed and ridiculously beautiful. “Would you care to go to bed? I mean, if you’d rather talk… we could always-”

“Do you want to be with me?” Crowley cut right to the point. 

“Oh, Crowley yes. Very much,” Aziraphale’s affection and enthusiasm shone through loud and clear, burning away Crowley’s insecurities like hot sunshine through morning mist. 

“Then we can talk later,” Crowley grinned wickedly at Aziraphale, and Azirapahel grinned back and pulled him out of the kitchen and toward the hall by his hand. It wasn’t a particularly long hallway, and yet, Aziraphale still found enough space to stop, press Crowley up against the wall and kiss him quite passionately at least two more times before they made it to the bedroom. Once there, what ensued could only be called a clumsy scramble to remove each other’s clothing as quickly as possible. 

“I want you so badly,” Aziraphale mumbled against Crowley’s lips as he worked to unbutton Crowley’s shirt. “I have for so long, since I first laid eyes on you.”

“Oh Jesus, yeah, same here. You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Crowley focused half his attention on obliterating Aziraphale’s charming yet frustrating bow tie. It was a job not best done while kissing someone, but he’d be damned if he was going to stop doing _that._ He could multitask like a champ when he was motivated. He finally got the thing undone and began work on Aziraphale’s shirt. “So many buttons,” he growled, and Aziraphale let out a surprised little laugh. 

“I, on the other hand, only had to unbutton a very few,” Aziraphale responded with a small smile. He illustrated this point by sliding his hands around Crowley’s naked waist through the just-opened flaps of his shirt. 

“Oh _god_ ,” Crowley groaned and rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s as the other man’s hot, soft hands swept around to his low back, and one of them traveled up to rest between his shoulder blades, leaving burning tingles in its wake. “Your hands feel so good on me,” he breathed through a moan. 

Aziraphale pulled him closer and kissed him, but after a few very enjoyable moments, Crowley pulled back again. “Angel, if I can’t get these clothes off you, I’ll go mad. Now what else do you have going on here? Tell me you aren’t wearing some sort of old timey suspenders under your shirt..”

“Well no, not exactly” Aziraphale looked genuinely concerned for a moment,” but I do wear sock garters. I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Oh sweet Jesus,” Crowley wasn’t sure he could handle sock garters right now. He doubled his efforts to get Aziraphale out of his shirt nonetheless, and Azirpahal helped by unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers, while they both toed off their shoes. Soon, they were both in their pants. And well… Aziraphale was in argyle socks and ….sock garters. Crowley swallowed thickly as he looked down at the insanely sexy straps outlining Aziraphale’s very thick, muscular calves. “Can we leave those on?” he asked, his voice sounding more than a little wrecked. 

“Of course my dear, won’t you get in bed with me?” 

He found himself tugged toward a large, welcoming bed that looked as if it were made out of clouds, held together with thousand thread-count sheets, and heard himself let out an embarrassing noise. “Yup. Yes. Yes I’ll definitely do that,” he stammered as Aziraphale climbed in and made room for Crowley to follow him. 

Once in bed and under the covers, they wrapped their arms around each other. Crowley was often cold. It came from being a skinny man with poor circulation, and Aziraphale, thick and warm and soft, was like a glowing supernova of heat. Crowley felt Azirpahale’s arms come around him, enveloping him in that glorious warmth, and he sighed happily. 

“What is it you want my darling?” Aziraphale asked, lazily stroking a hand down Crowley’s back, to the waistband of his boxer shorts and up in one long, continuous motion. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, whatever you like,” Crowley murmured as he nuzzled his face into Aziraphale’s sweet smelling neck and delivered a few soft kisses there. He delighted at the vibrations against his lips as Azirpahale moaned in response. “Feel free to be a bit rough if you want…” he hazarded, hoping this would work for Aziraphale. If it didn’t, that was fine. If Aziraphale wanted Crowley to be the rough one… or neither of them to be rough.. If Aziraphale wanted Crowley to fuck him silly, he’d do it. He was just harboring a very fond wish that he could be on the receiving end. Ever since he’d met Aziraphale, he could have sworn he’d seen the faint hint of a fierce disciplinarian lurking temptingly below the surface of the man’s soft politeness. He was rarely off on these sorts of things. He held his breath and waited.

Aziraphale didn’t respond right away, instead he ran thick, tickling fingertips up into Crowley’s hair, then clenched his hand into a fist, pulling Crowley’s head back with just a bit of force. The hand on Crowley’s hip turned to iron and pulled their lower bodies together. “Something like this my dear?” Aziraphale murmured, and now, his lips were against Crowley’s throat. 

“Nnnk!” Crowley, aroused beyond the point of forming actual words, just made a helpless noise. Aziraphale’s fist in his hair and the hard grip of his hand on Crowley’s hip had essentially taken Crowley’s rational brain off line. He was a creature made of rushing flames and tingling synapses. He gasped. “Yes, angel… fuck.” He gasped again as Aziraphale painted his neck with a hot, open mouthed kiss and rolled his hips, pressing their stiff erections against each other through the thin material of their pants. 

“I must admit that I had a wank or two, looking at those photos of you in Vogue,” Aziraphale murmured breathless against the damp skin of Crowley’s neck between kisses. “You’re so beautiful my dear, so lovely. I couldn’t help myself.” 

The praise, combined with the rough treatment, and the thrilling mental image of Aziraphale touching himself to Crowley’s photos had Crowley throbbing. “Angel, angel, oh fuck…. I’ve thought about you too.. So many times. I thought you didn’t want me, but I couldn’t stop myself.”

“I always wanted you,” Aziraphale was rubbing against him in a slow, even rhythm, keeping the tension on the fist in Crowley’s hair. His other hand was planted firmly on Crowley’s lower back, pulling them together, tight and hot. “I couldn’t act on it until now.”

“I need you to fuck me,” Crowley gasped it out on the tail end of a moan, then froze, thinking perhaps he’d gone a bit too fast. 

Aziraphale though, released him, offered him a wicked grin, and rolled away. Crowley heard the scrape of a bedside drawer opening, and damn it, if that didn’t make his erection get somehow stiffer at what that sound surely meant. Aziraphale rolled back with a bottle of lube and a condom. “I hope this is still good,” he said, squinting at the slim, silver packet of the condom. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been given the opportunity to use one of these.”

“I’ve been tested,” Crowley said. “Several months ago. I’m all clear.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Me too. Should I…?” he let the question hang, holding up the condom packet, his eyebrows lifting.

“No, we should use it anyway,” Crowley said. “We can get retested, together, just to be sure.”

“Thank you my dear. How thoughtful!” Aziraphale’s smile was like sunshine and rainbows, and Crowley felt his heart melt in response. 

“Oh shit. I’m in love with you,” he blurted out, then felt himself go hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to-” _shit shit shit._ He’d said it, like some blasted idiot, and before they’d even had sex. It was far different than singing another man’s words, up on a stage.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale took Crowley’s face in his hands and looked earnestly into his eyes. “I love you. Please don’t say you're sorry. I love you too my dear.” He responded so gently and with such genuine caring, his face going serious for a moment, that Crowley just had to kiss him. And then the kiss got messy and hot and Crowley very swiftly removed his own pants before hooking a finger into the waistband of Aziraphale’s and helping him tug them off as well. How they managed this without ever breaking their kiss was beyond him 

Aziraphale took his time turning Crowley into a moaning, gasping mess. He swallowed him down with brisk efficiency and sucked him slowly, relentlessly, with a mouth that felt searing hot against Crowley’s aching cock. He’d somehow managed to slick his fingers with lube during this process, ( _Christ_ , talk about multitasking) and worked Crowley open with two questing fingertips while he sucked him. It didn’t take long for this double action to get Crowley far too close to losing control. “Angel..” he gasped, followed by a sharp intake of breath, and this was enough for Aziraphale to get the hint. He pulled off of Crowley and looked up at him with soft, glowing eyes, all while continuing the slow, steady motion of his fingers. As he did so, he spoke praises and encouragements in a voice thick with desire.

“Crowley, darling, you’re so beautiful. You’re so hot, so tight. You’ll feel so good. You’ll be so good for me won’t you? You can wait for me, can’t you? Wait for me to get you ready...”

“Oh fuck, yes angel, yes, I’ll be good.” Crowley found that he had completely lost the ability to do anything other than writhe and moan and agree wholeheartedly with whatever Azirpahale asked of him. 

Soon, Aziraphale’s fingers had Crowley loose and slick and then he was on his knees between Crowley’s spread legs. Crowley was begging to be fucked, arching up to meet Azirapahle, gripping his hands in the sheets and _begging_ . “Please angel, please, please, I need you… _please_.” 

Aziraphale stilled Crowley with a hot palm against his belly, firmly pressing him down into the mattress, then there was a crinkle as the condom was ripped open and rolled on, a wet noise as more lube was applied and spread. Aziraphale took a moment to line himself up, putting slightly sticky hands firmly on Crowley’s hips and leaned forward, pressing gently. Crowley groaned at the aching slide as Aziraphale sank into him halfway on the first press. It had been a little while since Crowley had done this sort of thing, but his body remembered it well enough. It didn't take long for Aziraphale to finish his slow thrust, and settle, fully seated. He let out a long low noise, dropped his head and panted for a moment before speaking, his voice deep and a little ragged. “Oh, oh _Crowley_. Oh you feel amazing my darling.” 

“Angel, please, if you don’t… I can’t…” Crowley moved his hips a little and Aziraphale let out a gasp. He gripped Crowley hard by the hips and slid out and back in. Crowley cried out and threw his head back. “Oh J _esus._ ”

Aziraphale started fucking him, slow and gentle at first, and then, when Crowley begged again for more, with more force. He took his time still, not quite giving Crowley the pounding he wanted, until Crowley reached up and started pulling at Aziraphale’s hips and pleading for more. Then Aziraphale smiled and began to fuck him faster, and for a moment, the wild pleasure of it made Crowley go somewhere else. Made his vision blank out and his breath punch its way out of his lungs in desperate huffs of heated air. 

Crowley’s cock was rigid and hot between them, but he didn’t dare touch himself. The aching, sparking pressure inside him, the feel of Aziraphale sliding in and out of him with that relentless rhythm of thrusts, it had him on edge. He knew if he stroked himself, even a little, this would be over too soon. 

Aziraphale toppled over to lay on top of him, pressed them together, chest to chest, pressing Crowley’s thighs up and over his shoulders in the process and kissed him. His thrusts slowed, and he moaned softly against Crowley’s lips as the kiss turned sensual and loving and _oh sweet Jesus_ Crowley wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. Aziraphale’s thick, hot, soft body on top of him, pinning him to the mattress. That gorgeous cock, filling him, stretching him, pulling him apart. Aziraphale’s gentle kiss. He groaned and reached up to bury his hands in Aziraphale’s silky curls. “Angel, I’m close,” he whispered. 

Aziraphale had the gall to smile. He smiled slow and wicked against Crowley’s mouth, then levered himself back onto his knees. “Can I touch you?” he asked. 

“Oh fuck, yeah, yes, of course.” Crowley watched as Aziraphale took him in hand and then let out a guttural noise as Aziraphale began to stroke him. The movement of his hand on Crowley’s cock was mirrored by the slow, devastating thrusts of his hips, and Crowley clenched his teeth with the effort not to come immediately. “I’m on edge, angel… oh shit… you…feel...”

With a few more leisurely strokes, combined with a long, slow thrust from Aziraphale, Crowley felt himself clench and explode. He arched his back and gasped his climax to the ceiling as he felt hot streaks of semen stripe their way across his belly and up onto his chest. 

The constrictions of his body pushed Aziraphale over the edge as well, and he could hear him let out a low moan, could feel him pulsing out his own pleasure inside Crowley’s body. 

“Oh Crowley, oh... _oh!_ …” Aziraphale’s voice was soft and broken, and he held Crowley by the hip with the hand that wasn’t slowly stroking Crowley’s cock, and sobbed out his release. 

Once they had both begun to coast down the other side of what at least for Crowley, had been one of the strongest orgasms of the past decade, Aziraphale, heedless of the mess between them, collapsed on top of him with a sigh. 

Crowley let out a happy grunt at the feel of the man’s body, pressing him down. Aziraphale froze. “My dear, am I too heavy?” he asked, still breathless from his climax, but with a hint of anxiety that Crowley didn’t like. 

“You’re perfect angel. Perfect.” He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s broad shoulders and buried his face in his neck and sighed happily. “I love your body. Later, I’ll show you how much by kissing every inch of you.”

Aziraphale chuckled a little, and Crowley was glad to hear his anxiety evaporate. “Thank you my dear.” He paused then, clearly thinking, and Crowley waited patiently. “Gabriel..my ex, he, said some not-very-nice things to me about my size, and so, sometimes I get self conscious.”

“If I ever see that man, angel, you’d better hope it’s in public,” Crowley entertained a brief fantasy, during which he punched Gabriel in the nose. Aziraphale had mentioned his ex before. The man’s abrupt shift in temperature once they’d gotten married and moved in together. Had hinted at some cruel words used to describe Aziraphale’s frankly astoundingly beautiful body. He shoved thoughts of that ungrateful twat from his mind and wriggled against Aziraphale’s incredible heat. 

Eventually, they rolled their way out of bed and into Aziraphale’s slightly too small shower to clean off. Crowley got a bit too involved in the cleaning process, and the shower ended with him, on his knees, Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth, Aziraphale’s thick fingers clutching in his wet hair as he pulled a lovely series of noises from his lover by way of his lips and tongue. 

Afterward, they settled back in bed. Warm and clean and grinning like fools. They talked for a long time. About their feelings, the future, what to eat for dinner. Eventually, the talk slowed and kisses ensued and Aziraphale began playing with Crowley’s cock under the sheets with that same, languid, unhurried pace he’d used while fucking him. He whispered hot, thrilling things into Crowley’s ear as he worked him, calling him ‘darling’ and ‘my dear’ and ‘my darling boy’, and then finishing him with his mouth. Crowley clenched the bed sheets in double fistfuls and arched and yelled unabashedly as he came, gasping Aziraphale’s name out, before collapsing in a boneless puddle.

They spent the entire day in bed. Stopping only for Aziraphale to go to the door and pay for the Chinese food they’d ordered. Then they dressed, reluctantly, and ate at his small kitchen table, making moon eyes at each other over bites of lo mein and steamed dumplings. Crowley wasn’t sure he’d ever been this happy. Happy in this full, unfettered way. As if he could float up to the ceiling if he didn’t concentrate on remaining earthbound.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am done! Thank you everyone who's read this. Your comments are lovely and they make my day brighter, and I will respond to all of them when I have the energy. 
> 
> Thanks again to the mysterious anon on Tumblr who gave me this awesome writing prompt. It's been so much fun! 
> 
> Prepare yourselves for epic amounts of fluff

They talked about next steps, deciding to keep their relationship out of the press and the public eye as long as they could while Aziraphale continued on at Lofton Cares. It was for the best at this juncture. Crowley would be the focus of intense scrutiny in the wake of his incredibly public coming out declaration, and neither of them wanted the voracious eyes of the media pointed in Aziraphale’s direction just yet. Not only that, but Aziraphale had his agreement with Gabriel to consider. If he wanted to maintain citizenship, he couldn’t date openly at this point in time. 

Their lives continued onward in a careful manner for another two years. Aziraphale still led biweekly therapy sessions at Lofton Cares House, only now, there were 35 clients and another therapist on board to help him out. Lofton Cares was again a thriving facility. By the end of a month, they had six new sponsors and 57 new clients. By the end of that year, they’d had to build additional rooms for more client beds, and to expand the cafeteria and shower facilities for residential clients. The new wing was named the Anthony J. Crowley building. Or ‘ _the Crowley Building_ ’ for short. Clients would walk past Aziraphale in the halls, and one of them would say “I’ll meet you over in the Crowley Building after dinner,” and Aziraphale would always smile a little to himself.

People loved the personalized, caring approach of Mr. Fell and Ms. Loquacious (an ex nun), Mrs. Angeles and the other counselors. Lofton Hospital even began referring new clients to them when they felt those people needed a more focused approach to recovery. Aziraphale was promoted to Deputy Director of the facility, and Michael started leaning heavily on him for advice and assistance with all manner of things. 

Tracy and Shadwell continued on with the meetings for a few months, as did Adam and Pepper, but eventually, they felt that they were strong enough to take on sobriety on their own. Aziraphale gave them all hugs (and a handshake for Shadwell), and wished them the best, saying that of course they could always call him any time or come back if they needed to. 

Anathema graduated school with a counseling degree a year later and took over for Aziraphale in group meetings. She was an excellent counselor, and Aziraphale swelled with pride, like a father whose daughter has just made Dean’s List. 

Crowley’s benefit concert had caused a resurgence of his fame. Record sales saw a massive bump in the months following the show, and his cover of Journey’s _Faithfully_ garnered 10.2 million views on YouTube. He took it all in stride, but Aziraphale could tell he was happy with the increase in attention. Even if it did make going out for dinner a near impossibility. 

Eventually, Aziraphale and Gabriel divorced. It was a relatively amicable situation. Gabriel wanted to move his current partner in with him, and Aziraphale and Crowley were tired of loving one another in private. 

It was with no small amount of satisfaction that Aziraphale told Gabriel that his partner was a famous musician. He watched as Gabriel’s face transformed into a look of surprise, then settled into a scowl of resentful envy when Aziraphale informed him of who it was. “You know, that frightfully attractive bloke with the red hair and sunglasses everyone’s talking about these days? The lead singer of Dark Angel… that’s him!” Then, just to rub it in a tiny bit, he pulled up a picture of Crowley, one of the photo shoot ones where he was straddling the chair, looking steamily into the camera, and showed it to Gabriel as a visual aid. Gabriel had no choice but to stiffly congratulate him, but Aziraphale knew the man well, and knew that he was seething with envy. He knew Gabriel deep down thought Aziraphale was frumpy and dull, that he’d made a good decision by breaking it off. And seeing Aziraphale, happy with one of the most talked about and most attractive celebrities on social media was making him fume. 

Crowley ended up doing a few talk shows, refusing to bring his new partner on with him, and spoke to a few magazines, and in due time, the hubbub surrounding his abrupt change of public persona faded away. Aziraphale was caught unawares by the paparazzi a couple of times while down at the supermarket and at the shopping mall, after word got out that they were together. But after the initial shock of people shoving cameras in his face had passed, and the media lost interest, he regained his treasured position of unremarkable drug counselor. 

Shortly after Aziraphale’s official divorce, three years after they started seeing each other, Crowley and Aziraphale moved back to London together. It was the right time for Aziraphale to leave Lofton Cares House. The place was thriving, and now that his original brood of clients were gone, and the facility wasn’t hanging on by a thread, Aziraphale felt little guilt (though much sadness) over leaving. He wanted a future with Crowley, and he missed London, far more sharply than he’d let himself realize. 

Crowley bought a spacious flat in Mayfair, and Aziraphale moved in with him. He insisted that he be allowed to have a hand in the decorating, and the place turned out to be a mix of austere modern art and homey antique furniture with yellow curtains trimmed in ivory lace. 

Aziraphale started up his bookshop, in a large, rambling, brick building in the middle of Soho, and it was just perfect. He imported his hundreds of books, as well as several more hundreds he and his sister Uriel had kept in storage for the past few decades, and it was lovely, freeing and satisfying in a deeply cathartic way to see them all set up on shelves in the shop. He made a tidy business, selling the books he could bear to part with. Every day, whenever he could make it, Crowley visited and brought him lunch, and they ate together. 

Crowley started up a new band. He wrote a lot of new songs that were more sedate, deeply emotional and of a more singer-songwriter variety, and did some gigs in local venues. He accompanied his singing and acoustic guitar with some string instruments and a man who played the bongos, and everyone loved the music. Record sales were not through the roof, but that didn’t matter. Crowley was already independently wealthy from 20 years of rock stardom. This was something he did just to express his artistic side. He also set up a charitable fund that took kids from poor neighborhoods and allowed them to work at plant nurseries and learn about horticulture as a way to open their eyes to new ideas and get them away from the lure of drugs and alcohol. 

At the end of the day, when both of them were free, the two men would settle happily on the sofa to watch telly. Aziraphale would pop popcorn and make tea, and Crowley would wrap himself around Aziraphale like a snake around a tree branch, and they’d cuddle and watch cozy murder mysteries or action films. 

One night, Crowley was behaving a bit off. They had little spats every now and again, both being of a somewhat inflexible disposition when they were in a foul mood, but this wasn’t anger. It was closer to the sort of restless agitation Crowley exhibited before a gig, when he wasn’t feeling prepared. Except there was no gig. Not until next month, when Crowley would play Bush Hall. But that was weeks away. Aziraphale asked why he was so twitchy, and he shrugged and said it was nothing. 

This was also unusual. ‘ _Nothing_ ’ was unusual for Crowley. The man liked to talk. So did Aziraphale. It was surprising that it had taken them both so long to truly admit their feelings for one another, as they were both chatter boxes, people who would talk about anything and everything together for hours. Seeing Crowley clam up and get quiet was putting Aziraphale’s nerves on edge. 

They were halfway through the James Bond film they were watching that evening, when Crowley, who was still vibrating with nervous energy, switched off the telly out of nowhere and turned to Aziraphale on the sofa. “I need to talk to you about something,” he said. 

Aziraphale felt his heart begin to race, and felt tingles of icy dread crawl their way across his scalp with spider leg swiftness. This couldn’t be good. It was never a good thing when your lover said they wanted to talk. Because when it was good, and they wanted to say something, they simply said it. The only time anyone ever ‘ _wanted to have a talk_ ’ with Aziraphale had been to break things off with him. Unbidden, an image of Gabriel leapt to his mind. Gabriel, trying to school his handsome face into some semblance of kindness and regret, as he told Aziraphale ‘ _Babe, we have to talk. About us. This just isn’t working for me anymore.’_

Before he knew it, tears had blurred his vision and were tumbling, hot and wet down his cheeks. “Crowley, if you want to end things with me, there are kinder ways to go about it than inviting me to move in, making me happier than I’ve ever been in my life, then pulling the rug out from under me.” His voice was trembling, and he could barely finish speaking as a great sob burbled up from his chest and out his mouth. And then he was weeping, face in his hands. He _had_ been happy. He’d been so very happy… 

“Angel! Angel, no...what…” Crowley was next to him immediately. His hands were tentatively patting at Aziraphale’s hair, rubbing soothing circles on his upper arm. “Angel, baby, please. I don’t want to break things off. Jesus Christ, quite the opposite. Look.. Look angel, please, won’t you look at me?”

Aziraphale pulled his hands away from his face and looked at Crowley through eyes that were still blurred with tears. Crowley left off touching him for a moment to lean back and dig gracelessly in the pocket of his always-too-tight jeans. He pulled out a small back box and wrenched it open, held a gold band in front of Aziraphale’s astounded face. “Angel, I want to _marry_ you. Not break it off with you.” Crowley’s amber eyes were misty and gleamed in the light of the nearby floor lamp and the white glow of the television screen. “I was going to do this with more style, but it seems I’ve made a mess of things,” he added, frowning briefly. He had a pleading expression on his face, eyebrows drawn up and eyes full of soft affection. 

“Marry me?” Aziraphale looked at the ring as if it were an apple, being proffered by Eve herself. A thing of awesome power and mystery that he didn’t quite dare touch. “You want to marry me?” he repeated, feeling quite slow on the uptake. 

“Yes, I do. If you’ll have me that is.” Crowley was smiling now, looking sheepish and a little anxious. “I’m so sorry angel. I didn’t mean to scare you. I should have known, growing up how we did, and with your past with Gabriel, that surprises like this weren’t a good idea. I just… I just didn’t know how to ask. It was getting me all up in my head. I thought… maybe you didn’t want to do the whole matrimony thing again. Maybe you were done with marriage...and I should have talked to you about it before springing this-”

“Yes.” Aziraphale cut off Crowley’s nervous babbling and smiled wetly at him. 

“Yes?” Crowley asked.

“Yes my dear. Of course I’ll marry you.” Aziraphale felt a warm flush rising up from his heart to spread across his face.

“Oh angel, I love you.” Crowley surged forward and kissed him, and Aziraphale kissed him back. By the time they parted, they were both a bit breathless. 

“I love you too Crowley. So much. And look at me, I’m a mess.” Aziraphale wiped at his damp cheeks and then pulled himself off the sofa and went in search of a box of tissues. 

They talked long into the night, making wedding plans, talking about who to tell first. Then they made love, slowly, sweetly. Then a few hours later, again, and this time not nearly as slowly or as sweetly. It was probably three in the morning by the time they rested in each other’s arms, sweat damp and worn out and grinning, wrapped in a tangle of sheets. 

“I hope you realize that putting a ring on my finger means you’ll have to now keep me in the manner to which I have grown accustomed.” Aziraphale teased, running fingertips slowly up and down Crowley’s long, wiry forearm. 

“Oh?” Crowley asked, his voice full of sleepy satisfaction. “And what manner is that.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said with a deep sigh. “I must be made love to regularly, and fed many pastries.”

“I do that anyway,” Crowley replied, as he nosed his way into the space between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder to deliver a volley of soft kisses. 

“Yes, but now, it will be a part of your husbandly duties.” Aziraphale said through a smile.

“Ah. Very true. And what about _your_ husbandly duties angel? Can we talk about those?”

“Certainly. What would you have me do my dear?”

“Eat pastries and submit to being made love to.” Crowley said, and cuddled closer, doing his snake routine, wrapping his long arms and legs around Aziraphale. 

“I find that a perfectly amenable arrangement,” Aziraphale replied. 

“Good,” Crowley said. A few moments later, he went completely limp, and Aziraphale could hear a soft snore coming from his future husband. 

“Yes,” he said softly as he ran his fingers through Crowley’s red hair. “A perfectly amenable arrangement indeed.”


End file.
